


Charmed Life

by ChatterBoxomie



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Blood and Violence, Canon characters being assholes, Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy Theories, Court Mandated Therapy, Dark Humor, F/M, Government Conspiracy, Gratuitous Violence, I promise, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inappropriate Humor, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Mentions of Canonical Character Deaths, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Multi, Not Really Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Original Characters being assholes, Other, Past Character Death, Past Violence, Psychic Violence, Redemption, Threats of Violence, and you're gonna get pissed at people you barely know, blatant disregard for sentient rights, brainwashing concerns, brainwashing hysteria, but don't worry, canon-deviance, condemnation, cynicism and pessimism and the whole nine yards, fantastic injustice, fine on the surface hell underneath, i'll explain whatever you don't understand, inappropriate therapist patient relationships, innocence being destroyed, it ain't pretty folks, it all works out in the end, it gets real technical, just a head's up, just warning you, lots and lots of canon references and deviances, not that i'm too sure it'll stay that way for long, or does it?, post-war society, sciency stuff, so get ready for that, so prepare a box of tissues, some characters who should be dead aren't, this is gonna be a fun one guis, try to keep up but don't get too mixed up in the details, welcome to road rage's world folks, without any regard for how it'll ruin people's lives, you're gonna lose people you didn't even know you loved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatterBoxomie/pseuds/ChatterBoxomie
Summary: The fight for the crown of Cybertron - for the survival of an ideal and the destruction of another - is over.Has been for some time.Their whole world has been reshaped, reformed, in the ideals of those who fought hard to win against the tyranny of Megatron of Tarn.The survivors fight their demons and try to cope with post-war peace (however tentative), and the new waves of Cybertronian life have no idea what it's like to have said demons.That's a good thing, right?Now, the war is but a whisper, an echo, of the past that no one dares speak of. But can a utopia ever really last?Is there such a thing as "post-war" for Cybertron? Can Cybertron ever truly learn to cope with peace, or will its people only ever taste loss?





	1. For Your Own Usage: a Charmed Life Soundtrack

**Series Overall:**

Joy Williams - Charmed Life

Andrew Belle - All Those Pretty Lights

Scala & Kolacny Brothers - Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

  
**Charmed Life #0**

the XX - Intro

Nine Inch Nails - Right Where It Belongs V2

Kings of Leon - Closer

the XX - Together

  
**Charmed Life #1**

Banks - Warm Water (Snakehips remix)

Mac DeMarco - Freaking Out the Neighborhood

Courtney Barnett - Avant Gardener

All Time Low - Therapy

Twenty One Pilots - Goner

  
**Charmed Life #2**

Madeleine Peyroux - Everybody's Talkin'

Eggstone - Water

In A Bar - Tango With Lions

Youth Group - Forever Young

Solisti Italiani - Octet in E-Flat Major Op. 20: II. Andante

 

**Charmed Life #3**

Swans - Everything at Once

the Haxan Cloak - Mara

Sea Wolf - You're a Wolf

Cake - You Turn The Screws

Henry Mancini - Baby Elephant Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a project I've been working on for some time -- years, even.
> 
> I've been posting it to other websites, but based upon the good reception I've gotten for my other works here, I've come to the conclusion that my works would be more frequently viewed here, and so that it's better to move all my major stories here. And so, that's what I'm doing.
> 
> Like I said, this has been years in the making. YEARS. I began it in high school, and I'm still not even halfway done.
> 
> So, enjoy the wild ride. I wanted to take a look at post-war Cybertronian society, and when I started writing it, certain characters hadn't died, yet. I've had to adjust to certain characters' absences, but the plot did lend importance to certain characters being alive, so I had to keep those alive. As the journey of the Lost Light continues, and as IDW, itself, continues, you may find canon deviances in my story, or even, rarely, that I follow canon. I will usually explain why, if it isn't self-explanatory. lolol
> 
> This story, though, may startle you -- being from the POVs of characters you've never met. Don't be alarmed -- they'll grow on you. I will try my hardest to make you all like them.
> 
> Or, well, you might not. It depends on whether you agree with them, as well as on your individual personalities. lolol
> 
> And trust me -- nothing here is an island. You'll see faces you recognize, faces you don't, faces you already love after one meeting, and faces you've always hated.
> 
> I've even prepared a soundtrack for you to help set the mood, as you might have noticed, just like James Roberts did for his original work. ^^ I hope this helps you more than it hinders. I will update the list every time I post up a new chapter. There will be 8-10 songs I hand-pick to fit the overall themes of the entirety of the tale, and from there on, 2-5 songs per chapter.
> 
> If you guys have any soundtrack suggestions that you think would best fit the new chapters, or an old one, let me know ASAP. I'll listen to the suggestion, and get back to you about my decision. If I decide that it works, I'll make adjustments to the list. Other than that, enjoy the music!
> 
> (You might even find a piece you like ^^)
> 
> I'll stop rambling and leave you with this note: the war is over, and although life may be hard for some, Cybertronian society is the best it's ever been right now.
> 
> ... or is it?


	2. 00| A Mystery to Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the most humiliating experience that he could have ever been forced to face.
> 
> Tarn was not a beast who needed to be tamed. And yet, here he was: forced to cooperate with one of Autobot High Command's many pets.
> 
> Strange as she was, she would not break him. It simply would not happen.
> 
> He, on the other hand, was becoming interested in seeing whether he couldn't break her.
> 
> She had made the worst mistake of her life by choosing to take him on -- and he would make certain that she knew it.

"A bridge of silver wings stretches from the dead ashes of an unforgiving nightmare to the jeweled vision of a life started anew."

  
\- Aberjhani,  _Journey Through the Power of the Rainbow_  
 

Something about the unfettered calm of those infernal blue optics set his systems on high alert - alike to the feeling of wariness imprinted permanently into his processor. If he just closed his own optics, he could almost forget that he was sitting in a well-kept office situated directly in the center of Polyhex.  
  
He could pretend Cybertron was in ruins, that the war was far from over, that he was surrounded by those he had come to call his brothers - his most trusted allies, his personal team. In fact, he could almost feel the hesitant touch of a small femme flit across his rotator cuff - meant to soothe, to inquire.  
  
But those days were over, and he supposed the reason he had been called here was to learn how to cope with this new reality, the one that picked at something in his processor, that nagged at his spark, dragging a shadowed claw across his dreams, the whisper in his helm that  _you are not meant to know peace_.  
  
He was a warrior, a zealous advocate of the most noble cause he had ever known, the leader of an elite force and keeper of the justice of his allies. He was _Tarn_ \- and once, the very murmur of his designation might have caused the spark to waver in confidence, might have swept fear, icy and cold, into the circuits of any mech or femme who thought of his face.  
  
Yes, once, they all would have quivered in fear. No one would dare step around him or ignore his presence as they hurried about their business. No one would dare to look in his direction without falling to their knees to begin their pathetic begging for their lives.  
  
And yet, here he was, sitting across from someone whose faceplates displayed no hint of fear, or even of discomfort. He had never known the Autobot blue to be so unsettling, but in her optics, he saw his own reflection, and he realized that this was all he might ever see when he looked at her. _Optics were windows to the spark_ , he had once heard.  
  
He remembered the fear and the anguish, the fleeting joy and ecstatic cheeriness, the pride, the envy. But he had never seen this before. It was as if she was a closed book. When she looked at him, all he saw was himself. And something about that was wrong, _so wrong_ , in ways he couldn't begin to explain.  
  
_Who was she_? Who was this femme that he had never known to exist until he was pushed in her direction by fate (and his superiors - who were concerned about his alleged _inability to adjust to civilian life_ )?  
  
He would not cave. He would not bend. Tarn did not forfeit, or surrender. He had to be beaten and dragged off the  _Peaceful Tyranny_ in order to be tried for his alleged "war crimes". Of course, the new order of Cybertron insisted that the death sentence was not one they condoned - so they had instead given him a second chance, a _mercy_ , as they saw it.  
  
To him, it was bitter agony. And he suspected that they must have known.  
  
To be spared from death by his former enemies - it was worse than letting down his master.  
  
( _Former_ master.)  
  
It meant he was weak - that he had never been strong or powerful enough to be taken as a real threat. He recalled what fate had befallen his teammates - they had been spared, but separated. Advised not to seek each other out.  
He had not heard from them since.  
  
She shifted across from him - his optics zeroed in on the movement, watching her closely, carefully. Nothing she did would escape his notice. He was out of practice, but he was certain that if circumstance called for it, he could bring her to her knees.  
  
The femme seemed to take note of his rigid posture, and held out her servo in what appeared to be a well-mannered gesture. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."  
  
There was a quirk to her lip components, bringing to light the youthful glow that came with many of Cybertron's current inhabitants.  _She is very young_ , he noted to himself, musing.  _Perhaps generation one_.  
  
After the restoration of their home planet, the Allspark had begun to craft newsparks once more via brand-new hotspots, having seen the end of a long and tiresome war. It was time for peace, their home had decided, and the first step was to allow new life to step into the frame in order to wash away the spilled blood of the old one.  
  
He could still recall the way his personal informant's expression had shifted, optics filled with a new hope that he couldn't quite understand at the time (and still could not). He could still remember the awe that filled the other mech's voice as he described the innocence and the ignorance of the newsparks.  
  
The open willingness to trust strangers; the bright smiles and the cheerful laughs; the hope of building anew that they inspired into the sparks of older mechs and femmes whom had once lost everything.  
  
He did not arrive in time to see these newsparks. By the time he was dragged into court, the first ones had grown and many generations since had been sparked to rebuild the war-torn society of Cybertron.  
  
But he could see the sickening love in the optics of the older generations, of the Veterans, and he noticed how they seemed to move to protect the younglings instinctively as soon as they sensed danger, even in the form of a heated argument.  
  
The younglings did not understand this need to protect - but then again, they had not witnessed the level of horror brought about by war. They understood that this was something the veterans would take time to adjust to, and they, in fact, moved to help in any way they could.  
  
Hence, the resurgence of old professions and the introduction of many new ones.  
  
By far, the one that had grown most in number was the therapist's position, systems analysis, psychology - anything that could aid the newer generations in understanding and helping their elders.  
  
Many notorious mechs and femmes had been graciously integrated into this new society due to this - but still others, those whom had seen the worse parts of the war, or those who still could not comprehend all they had lost, or the fact that their cause had been the one to lose - those had the most trouble adjusting.  
  
And thus the profession was a strong one to steer towards.  
  
He saw the flicker of hesitation in her optics, and at once felt relief flood into him. She was not _fearless_ \- she merely could not allow herself to show personal emotion or prejudice. Thus was protocol of the profession, he had heard.  
  
"Likewise," was his drawl of a response, though he did not take her hand. He would not indulge her - _no_ , he had much better things to do with his time than to entertain the notion of playing nice with an Autobot. Or anyone whom had the blue optics of the enemy.  
  
She noted this, and drew back, expression unchanged.  
  
He felt an itch - this was _frustrating_. He was _Tarn_ , of the _Decepticon Justice Division_ \- did she know nothing? How _dare_ she presume to behave as if his presence were commonplace.  
  
He did not grace many with a visit, and those he did, usually did not live to tell the tale.  
  
She should be relieved he had chosen not to speak more than a single word.  
  
_Presumptuous child_.  
  
Then, her optics flickered to the data pad placed face-down on her end of the elegant glass table.  
  
"My records have no indication of your designation, yet, or of your previous occupation," she spoke after a moment she spent studying him. He could not tell what exactly she had been searching for, but he was certain she must not have found what she wanted.  
  
(Or so he believed.)  
  
"Do you know nothing?" He was in control, not this strange femme with her equally strange smile and those empty optics that said nothing and begged every question he could think of. He was in control, and he would remain in control. This was simply the way of things.  
  
To his increasing frustration, she inclined her helm, that same smile tugging at her lip components once more. Almost as if she were taunting him, or playing a complex game only she found enjoyment in.  
  
"It would seem I don't. How unfortunate."  
  
His optics studied her expression, trying to make something of it, but finding that it was akin to grasping at air. "I would assume that you were informed in adequate detail of the Autobot faction and all its innermost workings." His claws clicked against the arm of his seat, a gesture of patience that was not lost on her.  
  
He felt a familiar itch, a burning lash of desire, but resisted. _Now is not the time_.  
  
He would speak to his assigned medic soon enough about the weaning of his precious transformation cogs (and the addiction he nursed to said cogs). No, at this very moment, in this very office, he could not lose himself to his preferred recreational habit. He needed to remain in control, to maintain focus.  
  
This pretentious little Autobot, pathetic as she (surely) was, would not be granted the pleasure of catching a moment of weakness in his otherwise firm resolve.  
  
She remained in an upright position, perhaps wondering what his reasoning was for bringing up such a sensitive subject. It was almost an unspoken rule to avoid discussion of the war - its reasonings, its triggers, its factions and outcome. None of it was regarded as appropriate conversational topics.  
  
Tarn did not give a _frag_ \- excuse his unfortunately colorful wording.  
  
In his world, nothing was off the table for discussion. He did not care much for a sensitive mech or femme - if they could not stomach the truth, then perhaps they were too weak to handle the reality that surrounded them. Weakness was unacceptable, by all means.  
  
He would not accept weakness - especially not from this tiny femme.  
  
If she desired to speak with him, she would be required to indulge him in his interests. It was only polite. And she was not an uneducated creature - this much, he could tell.  
  
"I have heard very little about the war," she was unashamed in admitting this, he could tell. But then, she took him by surprise (something that was not so simple a task in accomplishing) - because she gave him a look that was unmistakably one of amusement.  
  
"Though I suppose informing you that the Cybertronian civil war is a sensitive topic would do nothing to derail you from speaking about it." She was correct in this assumption. It would not give him the slightest moment of pause.  
  
A very small part of him suspected that perhaps she was more curious about the war than she would ever let on. As was his duty to his Lord and master, he would grace this poor creature with the knowledge of his gracious cause.  
He could not begin to imagine the pain one must endure to feel that one is without purpose.  
  
Though he suspected a blank slate would be easiest to convince than one who was well-acquainted with the facts of the war. "The cause is all that I am. It is who I was meant to be, what I was meant to do in this infernally long life, and what I will forever look to as guidance. I will never stray - that is the path of a coward, and of a shameless traitor."  
  
Her expression remained still. "I see."  
  
"No," he interjected, "you do not. You see, one does not truly understand this life if one does not acknowledge the truth and ingenuity of the words of my liege lord."  
  
"You served alongside the Decepticon forces, then?"  
  
"I see that my words have struck a chord if the concept of truth brought to mind the noble cause." If he was able, he was certain his engines would purr in satisfaction, in pride.  
  
"You are not the first Decepticon I have held audience with."  
  
"So it seems." His claws laced over the smooth surface of the table separating the two of them. "My lord is a powerful advocate of freedom from the old functionist values of Cybertron. It would be a fool's errand to turn a deaf ear to his words."  
  
"And so it comes to light that many of your brothers in arm also spoke of the warlord Megatron as one would speak of a god." She did not seem particularly impressed with this concept.  
  
He felt a thrill of something like wrath, tightening around his spark with the pulsating desire to end the haughty little femme. He could  _feel_ the pulsing of her spark, if he listened closely enough - it was thrumming with a tranquility he had not encountered in his conversational partners for a very long time.  
  
It would only take a moment to match this beating with the lull of his words - it would be as if her spark had given out. It was so _simple_ , so _easy_ \- and yet, he felt hesitant to proceed with doing this. It almost felt wrong to do what he did best without the company of his teammates.  
  
"He  _is_ a god," came his eventual response once he had bitten back the urges. "He is the only god I would ever follow to the ends of this universe - and others. For him, I would have gladly taken the life of any who stood in his way."  
  
"What devotion," she observed, optics studying his expression through the dim lighting of her office. Then, her helm inclined towards him, body leaning closer, almost as if to share a secret. "It only begs the question - is _he_ as enthusiastic about his cause as you are?"  
  
He became very still, optics narrowing. Voices filtered in through his processor, hazy memories he had tried to bury with more bodies, with high-grade and the screams of transgressors, with forced stasis lock when the thoughts became too much.  
  
With Nuke when he had all but given up.  
  
Not even his favorite hobby could erase the words he had listened to. It was _true_ \- Lord Megatron had _abandoned_ his cause, and the very people he had rallied to fight for his vision. He had turned his back on the Decepticons, on a casteless society - he had turned his back on everything Tarn had devoted himself to. In essence, he had abandoned hope.  
  
He had betrayed Tarn.  
  
And it had devastated him.  
  
But how did this little femme know anything about that? She had all but implied that Lord Megatron had betrayed the cause when none but the cowardly crew of the Lost Light knew about it. Not even Soundwave, head of surveillance and chief communications officer, had known what Lord Megatron had done until it was all but much too late.  
  
Was this common knowledge, now? Did the citizens of Cybertron prowl the streets, teasing the ignorant stupidity of the Decepticons who were so blinded by their own faith in Megatron that they hadn't seen his betrayal coming?  
  
There was a prominent crunch, and he lowered his optics, finding that the remains of the right arm of his chair were gripped tightly in his closed fist. There was a flash of blue - the torn wires had dug into his servo and drawn forth his lifeblood.  
  
His gaze flickered, and their optics met. Her blue optics were questioning, though he could swear he saw a flash of concern sweep across her otherwise blank expression.  
  
She opened her mouth, but he cared not for whatever she had to say.  
  
He pulled himself out of the once-pristine seat, and gave her nary a glance as he made his way for the door. "This is finished. You will hear no more from me, doctor."  
  
And she really should have been relieved to hear this. Any sane person in their right mind would be. But he was beginning to doubt that she possessed any notion of sensibility.  
  
"I am truly sorry to hear that."  
  
He paused, claws brushing against the door. Then, he turned.  
  
She had climbed to her feet, as well. The femme was small, as he had predicted, a petite little thing. But there was something about the way she carried herself.  
  
An air of authority, of regality. He considered the concept odd - she couldn't be older than fifteen vorns, at the most. She piqued his curiosity.  
  
"Are you?"  
  
For the first time since he had stepped foot into her office, she wasn't smiling. She was very serious, judging by the look on her faceplates, and he decided that this expression was his personal favorite.  
  
He despised that infernal smile of hers.  
  
(He wondered what she looked like when she was in a moment of distress - and figured that would be worth a second session. Or a third.)  
  
"With all due respect, some of us do not choose to make a dishonest living. I am no liar."  
  
A feral snarl escaped his careful maintenance of control, though she did not appear disheartened by this notion (though she did take a well-advised step back). "How charming. I do so adore the notion of honesty in a world like ours. It's almost enough to convince me that perhaps you do, after all, possess a sense of humor."  
  
He took a single step towards her, a menacing gesture, and unsurprisingly, she did not step back. He was beginning to expect this level of defiance from her. It thrilled him - to an extent that he had not experienced since the last time he had dealt with a traitor to his cause.  
  
"My sense of honor does not exist for your entertainment," her blue optics were sharp, a piercing blade, narrowed in her indignation. He resisted the urge to display his most victorious grin - and instead settled for a reproachful expression of disapproval.  
  
"What do you know of honor, child?"  
  
"I am no child," she informed him, servos placed over her hips. Her grip was tight - he could see it from here. He took another step towards her - she furrowed her eyebrows.  
  
"Very well. Perhaps I _will_ return."  
  
The tension was shattered.  
  
"You will?" she folded her arms across her chest. "Why?"  
  
"If for no other reason, to test a theory." This time, he  _did_ grace her with his most menacing grin. "I will not rest until I watch you fall apart, one way or another."  
  
Something about his words sent a visible shudder down her spinal struts - he felt the intoxicating sense of victory shoot through his bloodstream.  
  
"Not if you fall apart _first_ ," was her chilling response. "I will do whatever it takes to get you to adjust to this new life. Cybertron is _finally_ experiencing a time of peace after a very long and grating war. You deserve to be given a second chance, as well."  
  
"There is nothing for me beyond the cause," he growled, feeling that familiar itch.  
  
"You will never know if you don't let yourself see what else you can become. If no one else, I _do_ believe in you, and I know that somewhere inside of your spark, you don't want those memories, or this terrible misery. You want to be happy, too, and I will help you find that peace you need, by any means necessary."  
  
There was something odd that gripped its icy fingers around his spark - he couldn't find the words. For perhaps the very first time in his life, Tarn was struck speechless.  
  
That same passionate display of concern had only ever flickered across the faceplates of Nickel.  
  
Especially in regards to himself, whom most (including _himself_ ) considered a lost cause.  
  
Lord Megatron himself had turned his back on him, so why was it so difficult for this femme to understand that there was no point in trying? What was so special about him?  
  
He was a devoted follower of the noble cause - nothing more, nothing less.  
  
And yet, when she looked at him, she saw something else, something he could not see reflected in her optics because it did not exist. He opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss for words.  
  
His dentae ground together in his agitation. She  _was_ a liar. A _terrible_ liar. And Tarn did not appreciate being lied to. Especially when the lies fell from the lips of an Autobot. Something about that idea tickled him - in a manner that was entirely unpleasant and completely aggravating.  
  
She held out her servo, a gesture similar to their very first moments together.  
  
"I will see you again, soon."  
  
"It appears that is the case." He watched her, and then reached for her servo with his own.  
  
If she was smart, if she was clever, if she valued her life, she would have pulled away.  
  
Would have never agreed to seeing him a second time, much less a third.  
  
But, as it seemed, this little femme had a death wish.  
  
She allowed him to touch her, and they shook on their deal.  
  
"Off the record, my designation isn't child, or anything else you might choose to call me. It's Clandestine."  
  
A truly radiant designation that spoke volumes of who she was.  
  
Or rather, or what her own caretakers had noticed.  
  
She was a mystery, a secret, misunderstood by all, perhaps loved by none.  
  
They had much more in common than he had ever cared to acknowledge. He looked directly into her optics for the last time that day, though he knew he would never forget that piercing gaze. It left quite the impression, beckoned him closer.  
  
Her expression was meaningful, serious.  
  
He needed to break her. Needed it more than anything he had ever needed in his long life.  
  
And he would have it. He would claim this last victory.  
  
It was the only way he could ever achieve true peace.  
  
He decided right then and there, this was the last hunt. She would be his last prey - and he would have no help from his teammates. This was a test he had set for himself - if he succeeded, he was a worthy Decepticon who had done his cause justice. He could lay down his weapon, and finally embrace the Cybertron that now was.  
If not, then perhaps there truly was nothing left for him.  
  
The steady thrumming of her spark followed him out, and a smile, unbidden, snaked its way across his faceplates.  
  
This was just the beginning of a beautiful story - he could tell. And Tarn was going to enjoy breaking his little mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to one of the project's protagonists -- no, not Tarn. You already know him.
> 
> lmao
> 
> Behold: Clandestine of New Iacon. The demon's therapist. 
> 
> There's a lot more to her than just that -- as you'll soon see. I needed to establish their ambivalent relationship, and also, hey, at least now ya'all know that Tarn ain't dead.
> 
> ... if that is of importance to anyone but me. lolol
> 
> Have fun reading the rest of the story. I'm only getting started.


	3. 01| the Relativity of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Truth: an evasive, thought-to-be-objective illusion.
> 
> Everyone has their own version of it. Stories have a sliver of it, and so does every lie.
> 
> But is it really possible to ever have the real thing, to grasp it in your hands -- or is seeking the truth like chasing air?
> 
> Who's to know? Sometimes the best liars are really just telling an incredible truth that no one believes. 
> 
> And sometimes, just maybe sometimes, a story is better to have than the truth -- especially if it's all we can depend on to keep us grounded.

"There's more to stories than it seems at first looking," she said. "Two sides to most stories. Folks better be thinking about that for once."

\- Augusta Scattergood,  _Glory Be_

"Perhaps you should accept help when it's offered, ‘destine."  
  
The glow of the moon proved to be enough to light up the expression of disdain that decorated the young femme’s faceplates. "I will accept help when I truly believe I am in need of it."  
  
Her companion gave her a steady look of disapproval. "I know it must have been trying to deal with the board's _special brand of questioning_ \- "  
  
"That wasn't what I would call  _questioning_ , Bio. What they did to me, the way they _humiliated_ me and caused me to doubt my own competency – that was an _interrogation_. Don't try to paint it with a pretty hue – they didn't think I was _capable_ of applying what I learned."  
  
Clandestine still felt that familiar twinge of undignified rage when she pictured the expressions on their faces. The way they would look at each other after pointedly staring her down, as if deciding whether to renew her license was a nuisance, _at best_.  
  
She was _fully qualified_ to deal with her clients, and if those bumbling bunch of idiots refused to see that, then that was just _their_ problem - it shouldn't have to endanger _her_ career. After all, considering what she had been through to prove herself, her license was all she had.  
  
The war had certainly taken its toll - in this new day and age of Cybertron, the new generations of Cybertronian citizens were experiencing difficulty in proving themselves to the aged citizens of Cybertron. Apparently, nothing they did was enough proof of competency in their field of study.  
  
It was almost as if the veterans still saw them as children - and it was _absolutely infuriating_.  
  
Years, long years, had passed since the first generation of newsparks had been forged from the veins of Iacon, and even now, they would _never_ be seen as adults. How could they make an honest living if the veterans wanted to give them everything on a silver platter instead of allowing them to work for it?  
  
It was degradation of the highest degree.  
  
"I know, Clandestine, I was there." He threw up his hands in a mockery of defeat, of surrender. "Try to remember that it wasn't just  _your_ license on the line."  
  
There was a rush of guilt, and she lowered her helm. "I'm sorry, Bio. I just - I can't stand it that even after all that trouble, they still think I need help handling myself on the job."  
  
"If it means anything, I doubt your age is fully to blame, Clandestine," he pointed out, taking a moment to drink from his nucleon cube. "They have seen things we haven't, and the cases you were assigned are enough to make _anyone_ nervous."  
  
Her fingers pulled at the rim of her own cube, a habit she had developed in her earlier years.  
  
"I thought the whole point of this program was to give them a second chance. They deserve to be given a clean slate. It's hardly fair to agree that the war is a taboo subject only to parade former Decepticons around as if they're complete monsters."  
  
"I'm not saying I disagree, but what did you expect? These are former Autobots. They won the war. _Of course_ we're only going to hear _their_ side of things," Biohazard gave her a meaningful look.  
  
"To be fair," Blackjack interjected - who, of course, couldn't help listening in on their conversation. (Especially considering it was the only interesting one to be had, at the moment.) "The Decepticons did commit their fair share of _heinous_ crimes. I only wonder what exactly the Autobots  _aren't_ telling us. Cybertron wasn't left in ruins by one faction _alone_."  
  
"What do you mean?" Biohazard's optic ridges were furrowed.  
  
"Come now, ‘hazard. You don't honestly believe that the Autobots were always the _heroes_ , do you? At some point, I heard tell that the little people fled Cybertron because both sides were getting pretty nasty and the world was becoming a scary place."  
  
(Biohazard seemed ready to respond in kind, but Quicksilver placed a single hand on his shoulder, as if to stop him, and that was the end of said protest.  
  
Clandestine knew better than to assume that the other femme was looking out for her mate - she was likely very curious and desired to hear all of what was to be said instead of allowing Biohazard's constant defense of the Autobots to ruin any chances she had of doing _just that_. Quicksilver was always on the lookout for the "whole story" - and right now, the Autobots seemed _strangely intent_ on avoiding her questions.)  
  
"Jackie, there are some things that aren't meant to be repeated aloud," mumbled Roulette, taking a long swallow from his cube. Clandestine tried not to wrinkle her nose - that cube was radiating an _awful_ stench.  
  
("Churning Tanks," he caught her staring. "Want some? I was just about to order a refill."  
  
"No, thanks," she declined, as politely as she could.  
  
He shrugged. "Suit yourself.")  
  
"Wait, you mean to tell me that the Autobots were lying when they told us that the Decepticons had caused the destruction of Cybertron with their greed and powerlust?" Calibrate's mouth was agape in her shock. _Poor thing_ \- she had always been one to blindly trust in the words of her elders.  
  
"Of course - everything those old kooks say about the war can only be taken with a grain of salt. It's all just a bunch of glorified poppycock," Road Rage shook his head in what appeared to be disappointment (though Clandestine didn't believe it for a second - Road Rage had never been one to believe anything  _anyone_ said, so what was he to be disappointed about?).  
  
"You're always saying things like that - I thought it was just a quirk of yours," Calibrate looked almost sad. Clandestine knew she wasn't the only one feeling a sudden urge to comfort her - the femme brought out the urge to protect in _anyone_.  
  
She could see Biohazard's optics softening – _I rest my case_ , she told herself, trying not to smile because then she would have to explain what she was thinking about.  
  
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," interjected Quicksilver. All helms turned to look at her, the reason being that every time she spoke, she usually had something intelligent to add to the conversation. "I don't think we should just discredit _everything_ the Autobots have claimed.  _Some_ of it has to be true, at the very least."  
  
"You're right - the problem here isn't that they're lying. The problem is that they're not telling us _everything_. They're omitting the parts that make them look bad."  
  
There was a collective groan from the others, though Clandestine kept her mouth closed and optics lowered. The energon would de-compress if she continued to stare at it without drinking.  
  
But she couldn't bring herself to lift the cube to her lips. Perhaps it was the late hour, or maybe her processor was still glitching from trying the infamous Nightmare Fuel (something she vowed never to touch, again, for as long as she should live), but something about the sight of her cube was repelling any desire to continue drinking.  
  
"Wait, hang on, now, everyone. I don't think Road Rage is going on empty fumes, here," Blackjack intercepted, servos busy with serving up another cube of Engex for Roulette.  
  
"Meaning?" pressed Quicksilver.  
  
"Meaning that people will say a lot when they don't think anyone's listening."  
  
"Say a lot? Like what? Do tell," encouraged Road Rage, though judging from Calibrate's expression, not _everyone_ wanted to hear whatever Blackjack had to say.  
  
In fact, one would be hard-pressed to find anyone who truly wanted to have their illusion of Cybertron's "heroes" tainted by the full story. But Clandestine was beginning to think that believing everything the former Autobots told them was a mistake - it was _no wonder_ they found her incapable of doing her job.  
  
Autobots were not known to be particularly good liars - and if she proved foolish enough to believe every lie they sold, then perhaps she wasn't cut out to keep her license and deal with seasoned liars, after all. (It was said that the Decepticons received their name from the deception they used in the early days of the war to gather support for their cause.)  
  
(Of course, this could also be an Autobot lie.)  
  
"I'm beginning to wonder whether anything they ever said was true," she murmured, a remark meant mostly for her own ears, though Biohazard heard every word she said. As did Road Rage.  
  
Nothing escaped his notice, it seemed.  
  
"Look, even _Clandestine_ thinks they were lying," he pointed out.  
  
"Why would they lie? They have no reason - they won the war, didn't they?" was Biohazard's argument.  
  
"But who's to say they won it  _the right way_?" asked Road Rage.  
  
"There  _is_ no  _right way_. It was a war - wars aren't won by diplomats. Wars are won by warriors," Roulette put in his two cents, seemingly otherwise distracted by his Engex cube.  
  
"Exactly," Road Rage looked around the counter at their faces, gauging their reactions. "Now, why would the Autobots want us to know what really happened if it incriminated them?"  
  
" _Incriminate_ \- ? They saved our people from extinction. Whatever methods they had to use - they're completely justified. The elder council tried war criminals, and none of them were Autobots," Biohazard pointed out.  
  
"Because the council was _put together_ by Autobots, you moron," Road Rage gave him a taunting look. "Why would they bite the hand that feeds?"  
  
"So you're saying the fact that they weren't tried has nothing to do with their actions during the war?" asked Quicksilver. She was scribbling something onto her data pad, and Clandestine resisted the temptation to remind everyone that there was a reporter in their midst.  
  
(That maybe it wasn't a good idea to discuss civil-war-theories around her.)  
  
"That's exactly what I was saying," Road Rage looked almost triumphant. "It wouldn't be the first time the system was bribed into looking the other way. Remember Rodimus Prime? He vanished to look for the Knights of Cybertron, which ended in complete failure, and multiple on-board deaths of a few members of his crew. But did anyone see that for what it was? No. They deemed him a good leader who had tried his best - which I say is scrapheap, regarding that even  _he_ knows he failed as a Prime."  
  
"Not to mention Starscream," added Blackjack, looking absolutely delighted that this conversation had taken that turn. Calibrate was looking so destroyed, poor thing.  
  
"The  _Lost Light_ was on a noble mission, mind you," she corrected Road Rage, who looked about as impressed as a child presented with a broken toy. "And Starscream - okay, that  _was_  admittedly a mistake. But we all make mistakes - why are you all being so hard on them? I can't imagine that it's very easy to handle a war, or its after-effects."  
  
("Starscream?" Quicksilver was puzzled - rightly so.  
  
Clandestine hadn't heard anything about a  _Starscream_ , either.)  
  
"You're completely right, Road Rage," said Roulette, sobering up all at once.  
  
"I am?" Road Rage quickly recovered from his momentary surprise. "I mean, of course I am."  
  
("Am I?" he repeated.)  
  
"Yes, you are. The Autobots committed their fair share of war crimes. It was an ugly time to be alive, when one side was willing to do anything to win, and the other wasn't certain which lines _not_ to cross in retaliation." Roulette took another swig from his cube.  
  
("I think you've had enough," Calibrate intervened, taking away his cube and ordering an energon spritzer. "We don't need you stumbling blindly through the streets of Kaon, _again_."  
  
Blackjack provided her with the energon she had ordered, though he looked disappointed to have lost good business.)  
  
"Is that the reason they weren't tried - their actions were simply in retaliation?" Quicksilver looked almost upset by this turn of events - for good reason. If that was true, then she definitely didn't have a story.  
  
Not one that anyone would care about, anyways. The masses were getting pretty tired of paying sympathies to former Autobots. They just wanted the war to go away.  
  
Well, most people did. There were others who were very fascinated by the topic.  
  
"No. They weren't tried this time around because earlier, when Starscream played as Lord of Cybertron - _that_ was their time to plead their cases."  
  
"Really? I didn't hear anything about that," Road Rage appeared to be very interested.  
  
No one knew _how_ Roulette knew as much as he did. They all just knew that he always had the better stories to tell. "Trust me, Starscream wasn't squandering any chances he had of prosecuting the enemy. They paid their dues - the Decepticons didn't. That's why the council held trials this time around for them."  
  
"Wasn't Megatron tried during that time, too?" Quicksilver pressed.  
  
"Megatron?" faltered Calibrate.  
  
"Yes, Megatron - as in, _leader of the Decepticons_ ," Road Rage informed her.  
  
"Yes, he was tried. There was a mistrial – some kind of _foreign-law-loophole_. Apparently, he was claiming that only the _Knights of Cybertron_ could decide his fate. There's a reason he went on to co-captain the Lost Light," reminded Blackjack.  
  
"So, he turned his back on the cause and went rogue, but his people still had to pay for what  _he_ had started?" Road Rage snorted in disbelief. "That's a load of - "  
  
"They were given the chance to follow in his lead, were they not?" Calibrate asked.  
  
"Yes. But who would follow  _that_ lead? It was cowardly - he wasn't winning the war, so he quit. They had the better sense to salvage some dignity and keep fighting for what they believed in," Road Rage explained. "Besides, I heard that Megatron never really changed his ways. He was still pissing people off and making _everyone_ uneasy. That pointless adventure must've been pure hell."  
  
_"He_ is  _a god. He is the only god I would ever follow to the ends of this universe - and others. For him, I would have gladly taken the life of any who stood in his way."_  
  
Clandestine jolted out of her reverie. Why had she suddenly thought of that?  
  
She had tried to put that unsettling meeting out of mind since the moment the menacing hulk of a Decepticon had left her office. It had not been entirely unpleasant - but she could feel that there was something dark, something _evil_ , bubbling underneath his practiced calm.  
  
And that expression of devotion to a single mech had only confirmed that the most loyal Decepticons were the ones who had lost their minds. Though it  _did_ bring her pause to consider that perhaps not everyone had thought of him as a coward when he turned on the cause.  
  
Perhaps some were left without purpose, abandoned, left to feel worthless.  
  
She had seen it in the flicker of Tarn's optics when she mentioned Megatron's questionable loyalty. It had driven her to feel something like sympathy towards the strange mech.  
  
_Until he threatened to break her_.  
  
(That certainly made any sense of sympathy or compassion vanish as abruptly as it had arrived.)  
  
(Or so she had thought. She still couldn't understand her own motivation for telling him that she could see a second chance in his future - especially considering that she wasn't entirely certain of that. He should have been a lost cause, she could tell. That was why the case had fallen into her hands. They all thought he was as hopeless as she was.)  
  
She gritted her dentae in frustration. She would _not_ give up - she would not let them tell her she had no chance. So neither should he. And she wouldn't let him give up.  
  
_Never_.  
  
She wasn't going to let Megatron's betrayal kill Tarn's will to live.  
  
There was a clatter as her energon cube dropped to the floor, and all helms turned her way. She felt the energon rushing to her own helm, and pressed a finger against her temple. "I think I've had enough to drink."  
  
("But you barely touched your cube," grumbled Blackjack.)  
  
"It is going to be a long cycle, so I should get some rest. I'll see you all back here tomorrow evening," she gathered her data pads, and then spun on the wheel of her heel strut, heading towards the exit of the pub.  
  
"Good luck!"  
  
"Tell us all about it!"  
  
"Don't die!"  
  
She scoffed. Of course, Road Rage  _would_ say that. So much for her private conversation with Biohazard. She would have to find some spare time to call him to finish what they had started. After all, she wanted to ask his opinion on this  _Tarn_ character.  
  
This was the main reason she had asked him to meet her at the pub.  
  
(Of course, she hadn't expected a private meeting to lead to an outing with all their friends.)  
  
She was beginning to doubt whether she truly was capable of handling this particular client.  
  
Especially after her expression had been so distraught that Rung had offered her his personal assistance with handling Tarn. Knowing his history with the  _Lost Light_ , she had declined, for his own good. He had enough on his plate without adding one certain unhinged former Decepticon to the fray.  
  
She could do this. She _could_ \- and she would _prove_ it.  
  
Clandestine had only to await the return of her client -  _if_ he ever decided to return.

* * *

 

A wave of overzealous sanitation invaded her scent receptors, and she wrinkled her nose. With that smell came the certainty that Asepsis had dropped by. And most probably wasted away the morning with cleaning up an office that was not even messy to begin with.  
  
That obsession of his was spinning out of control - she wondered whether she should speak to Rung about it. Surely, he had the time to speak with their cohort? She, on the other hand, did not. Her schedule was packed, as it was.  
  
And already, she was late for an appointment.  
  
(Something Maslow would _undoubtedly_ frown upon if he knew.)  
  
(But what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.)  
  
That hope was flushed down the metaphorical drain when she saw that he was, indeed, at the office today. And, as she had correctly assumed, Asepsis had made sure there wasn't a stray fiber out of place.  
  
"You're late," was his unceremonious greeting, along with that familiar twitch of the lip components that let her know he was trying his hardest not to smile at the sight of her frazzled appearance.  
  
(When he was talking serious business, he didn't like to encourage his conversational partner to ignore him by smiling - that was a sign that he, _himself_ , didn't take his own words seriously.)  
  
"I know, Maslow, _I know_ ," she rushed over to her personal work-space, placing her bag down on her chair and searching the desk for her case file, data pad, and recorder. "Is he -?"  
  
"Already there. He didn't arrive too long ago. You are _fortunate_ he is patient," Maslow scolded her. She fought the urge to groan. It was partially Maslow's doing that had caused the board to review her license qualifications. One mistake and he had been ready to flush all her hard work down the drain.  
  
(Granted, it was rather a _serious_ mistake.)  
  
"Give it a rest, would you? I know you don't think I can handle myself in there, but trust me, I didn't always have you there to look over my shoulder, and I did just fine," was her bitter retort. She ignored the look of concern sent her way - she would deal with it later.  
  
(Rung was always concerning himself with her affairs - always worried about how this pressure of dealing with difficult, uncooperative clients affected her mental state. She was growing tired of telling him that she was fine, that she knew how to separate her work life from her personal life.)  
  
Right now, she was running short on time.  
  
That being said, she shot them nary a glance on her way out.

* * *

 

Maslow caught the look that Rung was giving him, the look of disapproval difficult to ignore.  
  
He heaved a sigh. "Do I want to know what's on your processor, Ring?"  
  
"It's Rung," corrected the other, with an air of exhaustion, as if he was growing very tired, indeed, of constantly reminding everyone what his designation was. "Maybe I should carve my name into my desk." (That last part was said more to himself than to anyone else.)  
  
(But, _of course_ , Asepsis heard him.)  
  
"Or into your chassis," interjected Asepsis with a giggle. "I'm sure then that it would be memorized by every stranger on the streets of Cybertron."  
  
Rung did not like that one bit, and he made this very clear by pretending he didn't see the minibot on his way out. Asepsis had to roll to the side to narrowly avoid being stepped on.

* * *

 

The screeching of an indignant minibot penetrated the thin walls of the unofficially dubbed "Therapy Room", causing a very curious client to eye the door warily.  
  
"Is there another problem you should perhaps be focusing on, instead?"  
  
Clandestine peered up into his red optics. He offered a smile that could be whimsical, if it didn't remind her of a wounded cyberwolf deciding whether it would be worth it to take a chunk out of the nearest living thing to prove that it was still perfectly capable of murder.  
  
In other words, it was _absolutely terrifying_.  
  
She forced herself to push her personal fear out of processor - she was not here to think about herself. She was here for his sake, to help _him_ , not to hinder him with her ridiculous fear of dying.  
  
(Perhaps, it wasn't actually a "ridiculous" fear, per se.)  
  
"No. I'm sure those id - _my_ _cohorts_ can survive without me."  
  
She had only stopped herself from calling them what they were because she didn't want to come across as detached, cold. Doing that was a mistake if one was attempting to help someone open up. No one in their right mind would want to trust anyone like that.  
  
Thankfully, though she doubted he hadn't caught her mistake, he didn't seem to mind.  
  
In fact, he appeared to be _pleased_.  
  
"So, it finally comes to light that the good doctor has a temper," he stated, leaning forward so as to peer down towards her data pad, most likely wondering what she had written about him, so far.  
  
Of course, she didn't allow him to see her notes, pointedly re-directing his attention with a resetting of her vocalizer. "Whether I do or don't have a temper is not up for discussion, Megatron. We are not here to talk about me."  
  
(Yes, _Megatron_. _The very same one_. For obvious reasons, related to keeping her job (as client-doctor privilege stated that she shouldn't disclose personal information regarding her clients, or their lives, to anyone unless under warrant to do so), she had never informed her friends of the fact that the legendary warlord was one of her clients. She knew that would lead to an hour of intrusive questions that she would be required to skillfully avoid answering. She wasn’t looking forward to such harassment, so she opted to keep her mouth shut. The same went for her other clients - her friends knew she was an active participant of the new therapeutic program for veterans of the civil war, but that was as far as their knowledge of her occupation extended.)  
  
Her expression prompted a laugh from him, one that was surprisingly warm for a seasoned murderer - surprisingly _normal_. Friendly, almost.  
  
Clandestine felt her optic ridges furrow in her confusion. "What is it?"  
  
"You are probably one of the most charming people I have met in this long life of mine."  
  
She decided to take that with a grain of salt - he was, after all, _notorious_ for his pathological lying. However, it did feel nice to receive such a compliment, considering most people she knew considered her to be too-serious, to be moody and sullen, a buzzkill who thought too much and acted too little.  
  
(Of course, they never listened when she informed them that there were times for playing and there were times for working - at the very least, she believed they should draw the line when there was an injury at hand, or any other serious subject - such as _the war_. She did not see mass homicide as a laughing matter, or even something to be spoken of lightly.)  
  
She offered a slight quirk of her lip components, the barest hint of a smile. "You are becoming almost desperate in your attempts to avoid talking about yourself."  
  
He reclined back, his calm expression undaunted by her bold words.  
  
"I was under the impression we had an agreement, doctor. For every story I told, you must exchange one of your own." He tilted his head, matching her gesture with a taunting smile of his own. "Are you truly so  _desperate_  to avoid talking about  _your_ self?"  
  
"Megatron, this is not - "  
  
"If we are to make any progress, doctor, then an exchange of trust is necessary. How can I trust you if you don't trust me?" His optics glinted as he raised his hands, placating, inquisitive. "If you do not plan to make progress, then perhaps I do not need to stay for the remainder of this session."  
  
His faux polite mannerisms did nothing to deter her from the challenge in his stare.  
  
_Your move_ , is what he meant.  
  
She considered this.  
  
There was no way to tell for certain if he planned at all to follow through on his deal. Anything he told her could be a lie - or just what he had implied: _a really good story_. But it would be better than nothing, which is what she would receive if she refused his bargain.  
  
And he was absolutely right - they were here, in this room, to make progress, however it was necessary.  _No sacrifice, no victory_ , as they said.  
  
So, she took the plunge.  
  
(Because no one had her at gun point - she wasn't under oath of law to tell the complete truth. He had no way of finding out whether she had lied to him about anything she told him. If he wanted to play this game, then that's exactly what they would do.)  
  
"Where would you like me to start?"  
  
Her servos folded, and a haunting smile pulled his lip components upwards.  
  
"Wherever you would like."

* * *

 

"You were in there for quite some time," observed her colleague with a distinct look of disapproval (or it could have been concern - both seemed to mean exactly the same in his world).  
  
She heaved a long exvent, fingers combing through the box of audio logs to find one pertaining to her last session with the next patient of the day. "Yes, I was."  
  
There was no point in resisting his questions - if Rung truly wanted answers, he would draw them out, whether she wanted him to or not. He had practiced in this profession for vorns, before and during the longest struggle in Cybertronian history.  
  
No amount of evading his questions was going to get him to back off.  
  
"Hopefully this means you made some progress."  
  
"He's a tough one, Rung. I think the fact that he's finally decided to talk to me is enough miracle to last me an orn."  
  
"Is that all?" he shifted his weight, watching her flip through countless data pads with steady optics. "Nothing he said helped in any way?"  
  
"You know I can't talk about that. They gave  _me_ the case for a reason."  
  
He looked almost stung by her statement, and she resisted the urge to apologize for her insensitive wording. She needed to set the boundaries with this one - Rung was _far too interested_ for her liking.  
  
It wasn't as if his interest was misplaced. Rung, himself, had been the one to treat Megatron with similar sessions during the former warlord's time as co-captain of the  _Lost Light_. The only reason he hadn't continued to give him his treatment was because their experiences together on that ship rendered Rung's bias a liability in treating Megatron properly.  
  
Someone in their position couldn't afford to get personal with the clients - it went against basic procedure, as well as the code of a therapist. It wasn't helpful, at all, despite whatever the common populace believed - a _personal connection_ between doctor and client led to _personal misunderstandings_.  
  
Megatron needed someone impartial, someone who didn't know his story, someone he could know for certain wasn't an enemy  _or_ a friend. That way, he could focus on his road to recovery instead of on the therapist.  
  
But his expression dug its claws into her spark.  
  
"I'm sorry," her voice was lower than usual. "I didn't mean - "  
  
"No, it's fine. You're completely right. I don't know what I was thinking."  
  
That being said, he stood up, hastily shoving his data pads into his bag. He avoided looking in her direction, pointedly, behaving as if his actions required full concentration.  
  
"I must get going, now. I'm afraid I'm late for an appointment."  
  
She didn't stop him from leaving, and felt a second pang of guilt once he was gone and she realized she was _relieved_ due to his absence. Now, she could focus on filing away her notes without worrying that something private would reach his optics.  
  
(Of course, once she caught sight of him, whether on the streets of Kaon or in the office come the following day, she would have to set things straight with him. The last thing she wanted was for there to exist hard feelings between them. He was not only a reliable colleague but also a trustworthy friend.)  
  
(It would be foolish to let their professional lives come between their friendship.)  
  
Something caught her optic as she was scrolling through her notes.  
  
Something she had almost missed during-session.  
  
Clandestine pulled up the corresponding conversation on the audio log.  
  
_"What did your cause mean to you, Megatron? Why pursue a full-scale war?"_  
  
_"Our society was driven by the lust for power and status. I, along with countless others, suffered horrendous displays of degradation at the hands of those well-bestowed with plenty simply because we were unfortunate enough to be constructed into a lower class."_  
  
_..._ (She slid into her seat, finding herself enraptured with the words of her client.)  
  
_"My cause was the only hope I had of escaping an otherwise pre-determined future. It was the only hope I had of making my own path, and giving others the chance to do the same. I had always seen a caste-free Cybertron as a dream to any who had lived in the chains of the functionist ideals of Nominus Prime. And so that was what my cause meant to me: a chance at grasping the concept of freedom and making that dream of equality a reality."_  
  
_"Those were noble ideals, Megatron."_  
  
_"I was not an ignoble mech, doctor."_  
  
(She scanned the room around her, audio receptors tuned in to the log but mind wandering elsewhere.)  
  
_"If that is truly the case, then why did your cause spiral out of control? When did it become a quest for power and reign over others instead of a fight for freedom from the caste system?"_  
  
_..._  
  
_– A great heaving sigh is heard, one she notes to belong to Megatron. –_  
  
_"The power I was gifted as leader of a revolution was not something I was prepared to face. I was not strong enough to tame it - and so it tamed me. I grew drunk with the obedience and worship I received from my disciples, and in turn, I began to seek out more. There came a point I realized no amount of dominion would ever truly satiate my thirst. I had become what I once despised. I wish I could claim that this happened to all who were offered authority over others, but when I think of my greatest adversary, Optimus Prime, I cannot remember a moment during our struggle when he disgraced himself, or his claim to freedom. It stands to be that only the strong can hold their ground against the allure of power, and the weak perish in the face of it, becoming something that they would never dream they were capable of until it was staring them right in the face every time they caught sight of their reflection."_  
  
_"You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."_  
  
There was a click as she brought the recording to an end, reclining back in her seat to think over Megatron's words. He seemed to be making significant internal progress if he had recognized his own mistakes, but the former warlord only seemed willing to share his thoughts with her whenever she shared a story of her own.  
  
She would need to decide where to draw the line if she was to succeed in helping Megatron integrate into modern Cybertronian society. It simply would not do to tell him far too much and receive far too little, in return. (Though his personal inspection of the manner in which the war changed him was certainly refreshing to witness - not many people were willing to admit when they had taken things too far in their pursuit of a noble goal.)  
  
(In fact, she had received the sense that “the ends justified the means” when she spoke to many of her clients - most incidentally having been Decepticons during the civil war.)  
  
If their former leader could admit to his mistakes, why couldn't  _they_?  
  
Perhaps there had been no fluid dissolution of the faction, after all. Megatron had reported his personal decision regarding disbanding the Decepticons in the latest update of the audio version of his manifesto,  _Towards Peace_ , but judging from the mixed reactions of shocked stillness and/or disgruntled acceptance she had received from her clients when she mentioned his abandonment of the cause, not _all_ his _loyal disciples_ had agreed with his final decision.  
  
In fact, some had been _uprooted_ by it. The Decepticon cause had been their way of life, their mantra, their reason for survival and war, for so long, that to suddenly lose it - she could not begin to imagine the hole it must have left behind where a purpose and a certainty in their own role in life must've been.  
  
(From what she had heard, Soundwave, Megatron's former communications officer and surveillance chief, was still experiencing difficulty adjusting. He was tense around former Autobots, and trusted almost no one. He was seen only in the workplace because many suspected he went home straight afterwards. He didn't spend any spare time tarrying or even stopping for a simple hello. It was dreadful - she was _glad_ to know that Rung was trying his best to aid the former spymaster in adapting to a post-war society.)  
  
"Clandestine," her train of thought derailed. "You do realize you're going to be late for your next session if you don't get moving?" She peered up, catching Maslow's steady gaze.  
  
"Of course," she murmured, distractedly, as she began to sift through her pile of data pads for the next client's notes and logs. "I'll be right there."  
  
There was a tense moment of heavy silence. "I apologize for any misunderstandings I might have caused. I admit that perhaps it was none of my concern to look so closely into your work, and I understand why you were offended by my decision to take my observations to the board."  
  
She stilled, wondering whether he had truly meant to apologize or had been pushed to that decision by one of her colleagues (ahem, _Rung_ ). "Your actions were not completely unwarranted, Maslow. I needed to be tested, and I needed to become certain of what I wanted. When I went in to get my license renewed, I realized I wanted more than anything to do what I do for a living. Sometimes it isn't until you run the risk of losing something that you realize it's worth fighting for."  
  
She offered him what she hoped passed for a reassuring smile - and it seemed to work, because she could see as the tension visibly eased from his posture. "I'm glad to hear it. It is better to benefit from an obstacle than to let it defeat you. You have proven that you truly deserve your qualifications, and for that, I would _gladly_ vouch."  
  
Clandestine stood, and watched as he retreated back to where he had come from.  
  
Perhaps to finish his own work in his personal office.  
  
She, herself, had a session to get to.  
  
Next up - the namesake of her home, and a former member of the Decepticon Justice Division under the lead of Tarn, a mech known solely as  _Kaon_. For all intents and purposes, she hoped this session went more smoothly than the last she had seen of him.  
  
Her fingers were itching to close around a cube of high-grade, and without a doubt, she could tell this was going to be a long cycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand...
> 
> You've met the gang.
> 
> Clandestine, Road Rage, Calibrate, Biohazard, Roulette, Blackjack, and Quicksilver.
> 
> I hope I did them justice in introducing them. Now, all that's left is to watch as I put them through Hell.
> 
> These are what are considered "simpler times", everyone. Enjoy them while they last.


	4. 02| First Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calibrate liked to think that meeting new people was always a good thing -- it gave one the opportunity to form lasting bonds, after all.
> 
> She hadn't liked Road Rage when they'd first met, but that was a story for another time -- and look where it got them! A bit of persistence, a little kindness, and voila! Friends for life!
> 
> So when she's given another opportunity to make a new friend, she jumps at the chance -- especially since he seems like he really needs her to.
> 
> ...
> 
> But new faces aren't always a good thing.
> 
> Especially not when they go unseen.

"Things are not always what they seem; the first appearance deceives many; the intelligence of a few perceives what has been carefully hidden."

\- Phaedrus

 _Not a single word_.  
  
That is _exactly_ what she got out of “Kaon”.  
  
Clandestine sat (suffered) through almost _two joors_ with this mech, and the only reaction she managed to extract from him at all was a telltale frown. This was his method of informing her that she would be hearing _nothing_ from him. Not today. (Or maybe ever.)  
  
She had always assumed this was going to be easy, this career, because she had always heard that _if you love what you do, it isn’t work_. But she was beginning to see the error in that concept. Clearly, whoever believed in that statement had never dealt with _her_ clients.  
  
(Her  _special brand_ of clients.)  
  
(She was beginning to wish she hadn't volunteered for the program. Maybe then she would be able to live out a nice, easy life with a nice, easy career full of uncomplicated people who actually really wanted to make proactive changes in their lifestyles.)  
  
(Instead, she was stuck with an unruly bunch who gave the entire face of the planet nightmares from the mere mention of their names. And boy, were they  _uncooperative_. But why would they bother making changes to what they thought was perfect?)  
  
Her expression of frustration must've caught her colleague's attention. "Clandestine?"  
  
She peered up into the circular glasses that covered his otherwise open blue optics.  
  
"Perhaps it's time for us to have our break?"  
  
One glance towards the office clock forced her to admit that Rung was right. It was half-past the hour she usually took to go off on break and refuel. She could worry about Kaon's lack of cooperation later.  
  
(If she ever got around to getting him off her mind.)  
  
Not that he was the _only_ 'bot making a guest appearance in her mind, lately.  
  
She pushed that thought away, being that it was quite poisonous, and forced herself to smile in a manner that was not entirely convincing, but enough to help Rung pretend he didn't notice that she was troubled.  
  
"Of course."  
  
She packed away the audio logs, the data pads, and her recorder, before slinging her bag over her shoulderplate. "After you," she gestured to the door, and he led the way without a single look back.  
  
She lingered only for a moment, allowing the moment of tranquility, of quiet and peace, to seep through her sensor nodes and calm her pulsing spark. Clandestine had been (unsurprisingly) nervous since meeting Tarn - every shadow had her on edge and every single person who walked through the door tore through her train of thought. She couldn't focus on her work, she couldn't really refuel very well, and her patterns of recharge left much to be desired.  
  
_It was ridiculous_. She was very well acquainted with his reputation, and she knew that not many people lived to be threatened by the leader of the infamous _Decepticon Justice Division_ and tell the tale - but these were not those times, anymore.  
  
This was a time of _peace_ , won by the blood, sweat, and tears of the Autobots. So why was it that everything inside of her was clenched tight, terrified, anxious? Why did she feel as if the visage of Mortilus peered back at her everywhere she directed her gaze?  
  
She sighed, fingers coming up to rub at her aching helm, optics shuttering in exhaustion.  
  
This was _it_. Everyone in her profession eventually encountered what was known as a "nightmare case", and she assumed this must be hers. Or, her _first one_ , anyways.  
  
_I will not rest until I watch you fall apart, one way or another._  
  
It had taken nearly everything she had not to turn tail and flee that room. It had taken all of her force of will to respond the way she did. And she could see it had the intended effect.  
  
It quieted him. It made him think.  
  
It gave her enough time to calm her panicked spark.  
  
"Clandestine?"  
  
She turned on her heel, and left the office with one last look at her terminal monitor.  
  
"Coming."

* * *

 

"So, no reason to come into the office today, I hope?"  
  
His cheery demeanor was almost contagious - _almost_.  
  
"Absolutely correct, First Aid. No reason at all."  
  
"Of course, at least not for an _immediately medical_ purpose. The only problem in that office is purely state-of-mind," Rung couldn't help but to interject.  
  
This remark all-but-puzzled Clandestine.  
  
And it seemed to do the same for the good doctor.  
  
"Immediately medical -?" he echoed.  
  
" _That's_ what confused you the most about that? You've got to be kidding me. _Nothing_ he said made any sense." And there went Whirl, giving his opinion when no one asked for it.  
  
(As per usual.)  
  
Clandestine, at this point, had to admit that she still had _no idea_ why she bothered to hang out with these people, especially when she could just call up Biohazard and ask him to spend the midday hour with her. She supposed it was probably because Rung had looked so hopeful when he asked her to refuel with him, or because she felt guilty pulling Biohazard away from his work. He had mentioned a few nights ago that he was working on a sister to the infamous cortical psychic patch - something that would cause no physical or mental harm to the one undergoing treatment. A device he hoped would allow the Veterans to clean their slates without it bringing back unwanted memories they didn't want to consciously speak about.  
  
(She was excited to think that she might be the first in her field to recommend the treatment.)  
  
(It was a very convenient and useful tool that certainly _would_ aid the Veterans in integrating into civilian society with the least amount of damage done to their psyches.)  
  
(It was _pretty awesome_.)  
  
"Whirl's right," she said at last, dragged out of her own mind by the look she was receiving from the ex-Wrecker. "What did you _mean_ by any of that, Rung? I can't help but feel like you're accusing someone."  
  
She took a sip from her energon cube.  
  
He fixed her with a steady look, and she almost choked on the burning liquid as it poured down her throat once she realized _why_. He had been talking about  _her_. "I wasn't accusing anyone of anything, Clandestine. I was making an observation."  
  
"Observation, my aft," muttered Whirl, who pretended to be busy studying his cube when the psychiatrist shot him a scalding look. "What's the big deal, anyway? Observation about what?"  
  
"Observation about  _your_ state of mind," said the pastel-colored mech directly to Clandestine.  
  
She gave him a look of barely-contained annoyance. "My state of mind is none of your concern, good doctor." Before he could open his mouth to protest (and that was his plan, judging from his expression of disdain), she got to her feet with her cube in hand.  
  
"I need a refill. Anyone else?"  
  
"Well, if you're offering," stated First Aid tentatively, made nervous by the tension between his good friends. Whirl, on the other hand, appeared delighted by this turn of events.  
  
Something he could hardly keep from being made obvious by the purr of his engine. "I'll come with you, ‘dezzy." Before  _she_ could protest, he had taken hold of her servo and begun leading her towards the energon dispenser in the center of the large mess hall.  
  
She didn't have to look back to know Rung was shaking his head in disappointment.  
  
But she didn't care - Clandestine was perfectly content  _not_ to talk about what was on her processor. That was her business, alone. "Shanix for your thoughts?"  
  
(So, why didn't _anyone else_ seem to get it?)  
  
"Denied."  
  
There was a groan, playful (or maybe not), from her companion. He took both her servos into his tight grasp, paying no mind at all to the way she grimaced at the less-than-pleasant sensation.  
  
"’dezzy, spark of my life, light in my one good optic," he cooed, knowing fully well that she knew that he didn’t mean it. (Which brought to mind: why bother?)  
  
"Whirl, _no_." Hopefully her voice was stronger than she felt. It appeared it wasn't - if his laugh was anything to go by. It was a teasing, unfriendly sound.  
  
"Come on, Clandestine. I promise I won't tell."  
  
"Have you given any thought to the possibility that it _isn't any of your business_?"  
  
"I have," he paused. "And I've decided to ignore it."  
  
She sighed. It had been worth a try, at the very least.  
  
She passed along her cube to the server, who handed it back with a beaming smile.  
  
A second glimpse confirmed her suspicions. "Calibrate?"  
  
And just like that, Whirl's attention honed in on another unfortunate target.  
  
Surprisingly, he said nothing. His optic zeroed in on her, but he didn't open his mouth to say anything. He just watched her in silence. Serious, unblinking.  
  
The younger femme didn’t appear to appreciate the sudden attention, but if Clandestine knew anything about Calibrate, it was that the other femme hated to make an ordeal of things.  
  
She would ignore it, the therapist assumed.  
  
(And was correct.)  
  
"Yes!" chirped said femme, no small amount of cheer visible in her expression. "I told you I got the internship, didn't I?"  
  
Clandestine studied her makeshift apron.  
  
"I didn't think you meant as a server of energon..." she hesitated, uncertain of whether she should point it out. Calibrate responded with a laugh.  
  
"No, _of course_ I'm not a server! I mean, right now, yes I am, but that's not what I'm in this hospital for." She leaned closer, as if to tell them a secret. "You see, Relish decided to pay his conjunx a surprise visit! So, I took his shift, just for today!"  
  
"I didn't know Relish had a conjunx," Clandestine remarked thoughtfully, optic ridges furrowed in her confusion. Of course, she knew Relish had a romantic partner, Mnemosyne, who worked as a mnemosurgeon in the same wing as her office with Rung (one floor above), but -  
  
"Oh, is he planning to use this  _surprise visit_ to complete the first act?"  
  
Calibrate's expression fell. "How did you know?"  
  
For a moment, neither party said anything, and then the younger femme slapped her servo against her helm in a gesture of sheepish realization. "Primus, I am such a nitwit. _Of course_ you know. I just told you." She sighed, almost in disappointment. "And it was supposed to be a surprise. I'm just no good at this secret-keeping thing."  
  
"How fortunate for me," said Whirl, and if she could have seen it, Clandestine was certain he would be grinning from audial receptor to audial receptor.  
  
Calibrate met his steady gaze, and then had a most curious reaction when he tilted his helm in question.  
  
"Uhm, erm, I should get going. I've got energon to serve - and all that." She laughed, a nervous sound, and then she was gone, as quickly as her little legs could carry her.  
  
Again, there was an uncomfortable moment of silence between both parties.  
  
Then, her optics narrowed, and she fixed the former Autobot with an accusing glare.  
  
"What did you _do_?"

* * *

 

By the time they got back to their table, Rung had finished his third cube of energon, and Clandestine had made a firm pact with herself not to speak with Whirl for the rest of the day. Despite however much he protested and groaned.  
  
(Or pinched her in a fit of cruelty.)  
  
"What is this, you two? What's going on?" Rung demanded to know. But she couldn't properly answer with her pain receptors pinging on and off like that.  
  
"Whirl!" she broke her pact in the span of one hour, tops. "Kindly refrain from placing your hands anywhere near me, you fiend!"  
  
" _Fiend_ ," he mocked her. " _Fiend_ , seriously, ‘dezzy? Is that the best possible word you can think of?"  
  
"It's the nicest one," she muttered, feeling particularly cross.  
  
"Clandestine."  
  
"What?" she snapped, optics meeting Rung's disapproving (or what _appeared_ to be) stare from across the table. "What on Cybertron _is it_ with you people today?"  
  
"I'm just," he was stung. "I was just worried about you. Can't you tell me what's going on?"  
  
"You want to know what happened, Rung?" She didn't know why she was so angry, but it felt good to unleash it all in one blow, even if she felt a twinge of guilt for taking out her frustrations on the wrong person. (Especially since he was only trying to help.) "Your friend has no manners or sense of dignity, or of personal space, or of honor. And I just _know_ he must've done something to harass Calibrate. She doesn't usually act like that."  
  
"Actually, I'm starting to think you don't know her as well as you'd like to think."  
  
Her optics were sharp, piercing, unforgiving, when she met Whirl's defiant, indignant gaze.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said - "  
  
"I know what you said, you _unrecycled_ piece of _garbage_. I was asking what you _meant_."  
  
He was getting too comfortable with this argument, now. It seemed the mech would only ever be at peace if he was grating on someone's last nerves. "Has it ever occurred to you that Calibrate is the type of person who  _does_ just get like that?"  
  
"No. She isn't. She's a lot of things, Whirl, but  _quick to flee_ isn't one of them."  
  
"She wasn't  _quick_ to flee, ‘dezzy, if my saying so is of any consolation," he practically purred. Her optics narrowed, the insinuation not quite striking home.  
  
"Is there something I should know about, Whirl?"  
  
Rung appeared rather alarmed. "Whirl, maybe it isn't right to talk about - "  
  
"Oh, it's fine. We're all _friends_ here, right?" he clapped First Aid on the shoulder, of whom appeared rather reluctant to go along with the half-assed lie. "See, Cali and I know each other very,  _very_ well."  
  
"Cali?" she echoed. The only other person to ever call her that was Road Rage, and...  
  
_The stranger_.  
  
The mystery 'bot who made Calibrate shudder with every word he spoke. (The one Calibrate _swore_ was planning to kill her, someday.) The brash, forthcoming mech who had somehow managed to worm his way into the sweet little femme's spark. (Despite however much she protested this truth.) "It's  _you_.  _You're_ the ‘bot she didn’t want to talk about."  
  
His single optic twinkled, a gesture she suspected was borne of mischief.  
  
"That's _cruel_ of her," he pretended to feel hurt. "She kept me a secret? With everything I thought we had shared? Why does she _wound_ me so?"  
  
"Probably because being involved with you in _any_ manner is embarrassing to any self-respecting ‘bot," she muttered. His optic flashed, and he jabbed his sharp claw into her shoulder.  
  
"What was that, doc? Seems to me like you're itching for a fight."  
  
She rolled her optics, choosing to keep her peace as she took a last sip from her cube.  
  
"Look, as fun as this is, and I'm sure it's probably  _very_ fun when it's just you three, I’d better get going. My break is over, and I'd like to get some personal filing done before my next client comes in."  
  
First Aid could just barely hide his disappointment. "Bummer. Come see me later, okay?"  
  
She pressed a single servo against the flat hill of his shoulderpad. "Sure thing."  
  
Whirl didn't bother looking up from his cube, even when she hesitated beside him. He did pause, however, and then she could sense his smile, the one he was very likely glad she couldn't see. "Swing by again sometime, okay, ‘dezzy? Don't be a stranger."  
  
"Wouldn't dream of it," was her response, and maybe for the first time, she meant it.  
  
Things hadn't gone as badly as they _could_ have (and often had), considering her _company_.  
  
Of course, if Cyclonus had decided to join them, like he had promised to do before cancelling abruptly once he realized Whirl was going to be there - well, that might have made everything turn out drastically different.  
  
And Tailgate, that sweet little creature, he was stuck on the job, too, so he hadn't been able to join them. That was her usual lunch-break crew, although she never bothered with them during her personal hours. (This had to be the first time First Aid made a move to change that.)  
  
Rung exchanged a bittersweet smile with her, taking a long drink from his cube. She felt guilt wash into her spark. She had treated him so poorly today, and it hadn't even really been the treatment he deserved, considering all that he had done for her.  
  
"Rung?" He lifted his head, attentive. As always, despite the way she treated him. A warmth, a familiar caring and affection, filled her spark. "I'll swing by your place after work today. The guys can wait. We've got a lot to talk about."  
  
His surprise was barely disguised by his casual tone of voice. "Oh. Well, in that case, please don't keep me waiting."  
  
She laid a servo against her own chassis (in a mock salute). "Have I ever?"  
  
Rung decided not to answer that with _complete_ _honesty_ and, instead, just waved her on her way.  
  
Once she was gone, First Aid vented out, and Whirl pressed a single claw against the mech's shoulder. "Poor thing. You're so mooned it's _pathetic_."  
  
"I'm not mooned!" protested the good doctor, but by that point, Whirl had already moved on to pester Rung. "I'm not mooned," he repeated, quieter this time, though he knew no one was around to hear it. And what a damn shame, because he almost believed himself this time.

* * *

 

"I'm telling you, he just gets worse every time I see him," protested Calibrate, to which Road Rage shook his head in mild disagreement. He took a sip of his own energon cube before deciding to burst her (metaphorical) bubble.  
  
"Calibrate, I _do_ hate to break it to you, I  _really_  do, but Whirl has always been a problem, no matter _where_ he went or _who_ he talked to. It's just how the mech is."  
  
"But why _me_?" she wailed. "I didn't do _anything_ to deserve this! I really  _was_  just minding my own business, you know? He should’ve just left me alone."  
  
"Have you tried asking him to back off?" inquired Quicksilver.  
  
Both Calibrate and Road Rage gave her a funny look. It was obvious Quicksilver had never met Whirl. Even if you threatened to throw him into a _smelting pit_ , all he would do was laugh and taunt that _you don’t have it in you_.  
  
The mech was a nuisance, at _best_.  
  
"Or, if that doesn't work - "  
  
"No, ‘hazard. We don't need another trip to the station," Quicksilver wasted no time in correcting his dangerous choice of words. Besides a visible pout, there was no other sign he was upset about being cut off.  
  
" _Another_? What do you mean,  _another_? Since when has Biohazard been a criminal?"  
  
If Calibrate didn't know any better, she would have thought Road Rage was honestly concerned about his friend. But, since she  _did_ know better, she realized he was only asking because he was bored. A story like that, something _very interesting_ and _very illegal_ , was _just_ his forte.  
  
(She was beginning to wonder if, perhaps, Road Rage had a criminal record she didn't know about.)  
  
"Last minute call for drinks?"  
  
Calibrate found herself staring right into Blackjack's faceplates, a bright smile lifting his lip components. (She didn't quite understand why she bothered noting that - this was his _default_ expression, after all.)  
  
"What do you mean,  _last minute_?"  
  
"I mean, sweet one, that this is the last minute call for drinks. See, a potential customer gave me a ring just a minute ago - completely lost, _poor thing_. Must be his first time in Kaon."  
  
"How'd he know to call you if this is his first time here?" Road Rage didn't bother to disguise his disbelief. And honestly, Calibrate could understand why. Blackjack wasn't exactly known for his honesty.  
  
"You know - I don't actually know how to answer that. He just rung me up - must've heard about the Alibi somewhere. I reckon my little hole in the wall is garnering up quite the rep over in Tarn." Blackjack served up one last cube of Engex to a near-comatose Roulette.  
  
("That's your last one! Promise me!" Calibrate's expression was nothing less than firm.  
  
Roulette grunted something unintelligible that passed for appeasement.)  
  
"What makes you think he's from Tarn?" Road Rage took up the cue to ask, assuming the stranger in question must be a mech, considering how adamant Blackjack was on insisting it was a  _he_.  
  
"The accent - I suppose," he paused, deep in thought. "I dunno. I just assumed he must be a Tarner. Sure sounds like it. All smart words and no emotion - that's the designated calling card of a Tarner."  
  
"No, it's _not_ \- " Calibrate began to protest, mostly for Biohazard's sake. (And also because it was rude to apply unpleasant stereotypes to an entire city.) Biohazard never caught on to the implied insult in Blackjack's words - he was too busy holding a steady gaze with his conjunx, servos held in one another’s (smiles on their faceplates hinting that they might be having a staring contest).  
  
" _Sure_ , _sure_. Listen, we'll keep talking later, agreed, sweet one?"  
  
That being decided (without any input from the  _sweet one_ in question), Blackjack ducked through the door of the pub and walked out into the streets. Calibrate took a deep breath, and then pushed her cube away.  
  
"I'm not feeling so well. I'm thinking I might - "  
  
Before she could finish, the door to the pub opened once more and a flash of red and silver caught the youngling's attention. A familiar face, impassive but somehow unfriendly, emerged into the dimly lit pub.  
  
That same face peered into the large room, unimpressed by what he saw, until his optics caught sight of a certain blue-opticaled, navy-plated mech. When red met blue, he froze, stock-still, and then he grinned, as if he had just spotted a precious gem amidst all the garbage in the world.  
  
(Roulette found himself cursing his own rotten luck - for perhaps the _thousandth_ time in his infernally long life.)  
  
Said stranger slunk through the crowd, crossing from the far side entrance of the pub to the bar. Once he'd reached the lone mech - who took a long, weary drink from his Engex cube, as if to prepare himself for what was to come - he made himself at home beside him, taking the solitary stool without asking whether he was welcome.  
  
(Knowing, perhaps, that he was not.)  
  
"You're certainly a sight for sore optics," remarked the stranger with a familiar face. Calibrate had to augment the sensors decorating her audial receptors in order to catch part of Roulette's mumbled response.  
  
" - say the same."  
  
A snort from the stranger, who gave Roulette a long look. Something about that expression, something about the barely-restrained pity in his ember red optics when he looked at Calibrate's friend, made her angry. She could still clearly recall what Roulette had once told her, when she had given him a similar look.  
  
_Last thing I want is anyone's pity, child. I'd rather we both just pretended I was one of you. One of you newsparks. Much less on my plate, that way. Less reason to remember who I am and what I did, less reason to think about what I lost. Think you can promise that, little one? Think you can keep what I told you between us?_  
  
And she had. She had promised not to say a word, and she had kept that promise.  
  
To this day, no one but herself knew who, exactly, Roulette was.  
  
Except, maybe, _the stranger_.  
  
This was the first time she had seen anyone look at Roulette like he was an old friend. Or, judging from the scornful look in those malicious red optics, an old  _enemy_.  
  
"You look like slag, if you don't mind my saying so."  
  
"I  _do_ mind, but that's never stopped you before, has it, 'screamer?"  
  
_‘screamer_? Did she know that from anywhere? Calibrate thought long and hard about it, but no matter which angle she looked at it from, she really had no idea who he was.  
  
Until... _it clicked_.  
  
"That's _Starscream_ to you, Autobot."  
  
"Roulette," corrected the other mech, optics darkening at the usage of the word. To him, it was almost like a swear. (After the sacrifices he had made for them, the Autobots were the _last_ thing he wanted to hear about.)  
  
_Starscream_! As in, _Commander_ Starscream, second only to Megatron, himself! He was infamous for his numerous war crimes, as well as his lust for power, the very same one that drove him to _so-graciously_ accept the titan’s endowment of leadership.  
  
(And subsequently exile all remaining ex-warriors from Iacon.)  
  
And here he was, in some dingy pub smack-dab in the middle of a nowhere city like Kaon.  
  
(Well, Kaon was actually quite impressive, and so was the _Alibi_ , but that was beside the point!)  
  
Now she understood why his finish was buffed to a shining luster, why he held his chin so high and why his optics were so arrogant as to ignore whatever lifeforms he found insignificant.  
  
And why Roulette seemed like he would rather willingly wade into a smelting pit than to spend five more nanokliks in his presence. "Interesting," drawled the ex-Decepticon commander. "I had thought you Autobots were rather proud of your cause."  
  
"Do not mention that name to me," warned the other, taking a drink from his Engex cube.  
  
Then, the door to the pub swung open, and Blackjack strode in, expression akin to someone who had been honored with the presence of the Prime, himself. Calibrate opened her mouth to ask for another cube, ignoring the shame that welled up inside at the hypocrisy in asking for another when she wouldn't allow Roulette to do the same.  
  
(Though in her defense, Roulette had already downed far too many cubes that evening.)  
  
But she never got to say a word.  
  
Blackjack wasn't alone. He walked into the pub accompanied by a dark-colored mech, one whose faceplates were obscured by a black visor, one marred by a long sliver of cracked glass.  
  
It didn't seem to bother the mech, or even disfigure his sight. He was walking just fine (something she wondered about - didn't such dark glass _blind_ him in this lighting?), albeit slowly, as if in a dream.  
  
He took a seat at the far corner of the bar, away from prying optics (though he still attracted a few curious stares - he didn't look like your average mech walking down the streets of Kaon - what was even  _with_ that visor?).  
  
Blackjack busied himself with serving up a cube of the house's special, and then he handed it to the silent mech, who still had not spoken a single word. He issued no verbal gratitude - he just kept his helm lowered, as if deep in thought.  
  
Something about the way he sat, how very lost he looked, how alone he must have felt - it stirred sympathy in her spark, and Calibrate found herself standing up from her stool. Road Rage gave her a puzzled look, one which she promptly ignored.  
  
She took a step, then another, in the silent mech's direction, and it seemed he must've noticed, because he lifted his helm, and she could see her own reflection in the black glass as she approached him.  
  
He watched her come closer, and then continued to watch as she gestured to the crack in his visor. The nearly undecipherable data that strolled across the screen. Flickering, light and dark, struggling to function.  
  
"Would you mind if I asked to fix the screen?"  
  
Her voice was small, a fact she hated about herself at that very moment, but he didn't seem to notice, or care. There was a moment of silence, in which she resisted the urge to squirm and retract her offer under his heavy gaze, and then he was nodding, and lifting his servo, fingers slim and curved around the rim of the visor, as he removed it from his face.  
  
She barely caught a glance of the scarred metal of his faceplates before he had turned his helm, keeping it lowered as he took a sip of his cube. His servo was outstretched, offering the visor, and she took it, hesitating just for a moment before she took a seat on the stool beside him.  
  
He didn't show her his faceplates, not once, as he drank from the cube. And she didn't ask about it. She kept her helm lowered and worked diligently on analyzing the damage. The codings were complex, the numbers dizzying, but once she got over the initial shock of having come across an ingenious craft of art, she put herself to the task of downloading the source code in order to best understand the strange dialect featured in the numerous storage disks the glass visor boasted.  
  
If she was ever going to repair this malfunctioning data retrieval and storage tool, she would need to understand the language it was programmed to read. That way, she could delve into the blueprints and piece together whatever was missing.  
  
(Applied engineering and nanotechnology, everybody! This was pretty basic stuff, even for an idiot like herself - or so Road Rage would _claim_ , if he could read her mind at this very moment.)  
  
There came a muffled sound from her left, and she raised her helm, befuddled, wondering whether it had been the dark-plated mech or simply her imagination. Her dazzling blue optics met red, and she realized he was staring at her.  
  
His expression was difficult to read into, poised as it was, but there was no mistaking the way his hand brushed over the back of her helm, almost in a gesture meant to be affectionate.  
  
"I disagree. Your degree of knowledge in nanotechnology is impressive for one your age."  
  
"In other words, it really amounts to nothing in the real world," was her sullen response, something she was accustomed to hearing from the cruel words of Road Rage when he was feeling  _generous_.  
  
"In comparison to what?"  
  
She lowered her helm to finish downloading the source code. It registered as a system error - the distinguishing design in the characters was not acknowledged by the language association of Cybertron. It wasn't even cataloged into the Iaconian Database, which meant the language was either outlawed by circumstance, long forgotten by vorns in passing, or virtually nonexistent in terms of practicality.  
  
"I don't suppose you could tell me what language the source code is written in?"  
  
"Decepticon Regular."  
  
Her helm snapped up, and she met his steady gaze.  
  
"Are you serious?" Her expression was almost drained of confidence - how was she to fix something if she had never learned the language - and if it wasn't even available for rush order in downloading?  
  
"Always am."  
  
She turned the visor over in her hands, admiring the balance of delicacy in craft with a firm foundation. It was a wonder the glass had been damaged, to begin with.  
  
"I've got an idea," she said suddenly, and she meant it. But she would need to take this home with her in order for it to work out in her favor. She hesitated in asking, but one look at his expression confirmed that he already knew what she had in mind.  
  
(Somehow.)  
  
"Do what you must."  
  
"How will I return this to you?" she held up the visor in question.  
  
"We will meet once you have finished with the repairs. As you are the one working on its repairs, it is only customary to allow you to choose where and when."  
  
She jumped up to her feet, startling a nearby client, though the mech before her barely shuttered an optic. "I know the perfect place!"

* * *

 

The air outside was clean, he noted. Cleaner than it had been in vorns.  
  
Something about that struck him as wrong, as _very_ , _very_ _wrong_.  
  
This was Kaon - but it was not _his_ Kaon, not anymore.  
  
The Kaon he had known was gone, sheltered from the common optic, used as the foundation for a stronger, cleaner, newly habitable city. And this talkative young femme seemed to adore her surroundings.  
  
(He didn't have the heart to tell her what her beloved pub used to be.)  
  
" - in the city."  
  
He jolted out of his thoughts, and turned his helm.  
  
"Is this your home?"  
  
She peered down at the visor in her hand thoughtfully. He fought a painful ache of vulnerability, resisted the urge to snatch away the visor and hide away his face, so clear in view for anyone to lay their optics upon.  
  
He hoped he was not as easy to read as he feared. He was not accustomed to training his faceplates to hide his weakness, considering that he had always hidden it from view with a shield (of sorts).  
  
"Only temporarily. Kaon is a beautiful city, but it's not where I want to live out my years. I mean, if I had made it to Iacon, I would be interning in Polyhex. Can you imagine? _Me_ , in _Polyhex_?" she laughed, a sweet sound he decided he didn't despise. "But I didn't have the marks to make it in, so I got stuck in Tarn, instead. And so now, here I am."  
  
She met his optics, and must've seen the confusion, because she hurried to explain away her complaint. "Not that Tarn is terrible, or anything, and like I said, Kaon's beautiful, really! It's just not my cube of Engex, if you get what I mean."  
  
He did. Sometimes it was difficult to admit that circumstances weren't going to allow for an easy ride to one's dream come true. After all, had Lord Megatron not waged a vicious civil war for thousands of vorns before coming to that same realization?  
  
(And in the end, had he not failed to carry out his mission?)  
  
(There went a dream, _shattered_.)  
  
"Where are we going?" he decided to ask, when the silence had dragged on long enough.  
  
Her expression brightened. (She was so expressive, he felt that tracing the pulses of her processor were unnecessary. He needn't dig into her mind to see what she was up to - she _herself_ revealed her intentions quite clearly. It was a refreshing change of pace.)  
  
"You've heard of the harvesting-hotspots?"  
  
He had only to give her a look to pull a laugh of self-derision from her.  
  
"Of course, you _have_. Only an idiot wouldn't have." He didn't bother saying anything about this observation. She felt stupid enough, as it was. "The hotspots have sprouted many a 'vein' throughout the cities and plains of Cybertron. One of those veins has sprouted here, _in this very city_. It's actually high on the level of tourist attractions - which is saying quite a lot, considering all there is to do here in Kaon!"  
  
She stopped mid-pace before a large crowd of mechs and femmes, younglings spending personal time away on dates or lone outings, ‘bots with rowdy protoforms ( _their young_ , Soundwave noted), and a large gathering of mechs and femmes doused in ceremonial markings.  
  
"Here it is!" she announced, and gestured to a large shrine that encircled a great pothole in the center of the city of Kaon. The tunnels below were dark, occasionally lighted up by a bright blue flame that seemed to erupt from the very core of Cybertron.  
  
"Be careful!" she held out an arm, preventing him from stepping any closer. "Falling in could result in serious injury. Someone's even _died_ here before, if what Road Rage says is true. The search and rescue team found only a shell left behind. He says it was a sparkeater." Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper at the mention of the fabled nightmare of Cybertron.  
  
"Is there a reason you brought me to this place of danger?"  
  
He would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised by this show of unpredictable enthusiasm for the macabre. She beamed at him, an odd sight in comparison to this place of a grisly (rumored) death.  
  
"It is not merely a place of danger, my friend." The term of affection threw him off-kilter for a split second.  _Friend_? She hurried on before he could say anything to that. "This is a place of harvest, of new life. To encourage the spreading of new life throughout the wasteland that Cybertron had become, they say that the Prime spoke with the planetformer we live on and asked him to extend the few hotspots we had to several locations, so that it may never again be clogged up in one place and so that new life would always exist to broaden the minds of the old. They think this will help prevent another civil war from breaking out, if it can help everybot understand each other by granting every city new life instead of excluding the masses from the miracles of harvesting and forging. This vein," she pointed out the gaping pothole of tunnels and darkness, "is proof of that promise. From here emerges a newspark every so often to join the world of the living, just as an old spark is extinguished somewhere in this vast universe to rejoin the Allspark. For every death there is life, and vice versa."  
  
" _’Till all are one_ ," he spoke, voice soft and unassuming. The words were familiar, but they seemed to mean something to the mech. She decided it was best not to ask.  
  
"So, I thought it was only fitting. If we're going to meet anywhere while I finish repairing your visor, it should be in a place of opportunity and hope. Here."  
  
She stomped her foot to give real meaning to the statement.  
  
"Hope..." he murmured, and then held out his servo. "I accept your proposal."  
  
" _So serious_ ," she noted, and accepted the gesture with a firm shake of her own servo.  
  
She caught his directed stare towards the long procession of ‘bots in their ceremonial paintjobs.  
  
"Those people are here to celebrate the harvest of a newspark. The pair who plan on mentoring the newborn ‘bot undergo trials of the spark in order to ensure the safety of the sparkling in forming a bond and imprinting on them as its carriers. Once they've finished, this is their last step - accepting the token of life from Primus through the forging of a newspark."  
  
(They forged the newsparks, _themselves_? That was… an _odd_ practice. One he wasn’t sure he would _ever_ grow accustomed to.)  
  
There were flashes of voices in his mind, of the unrelenting trust in the optics of his mini-cassette companions. "What if there is a torn bond in the recipient?"  
  
She lifted her helm to look at him directly. "They were running a project earlier in the stellar cycle to see if it was possible that a new bond could replace an old one without causing damage to either party. I never did read about the results of that experiment."  
  
"I suppose that is something you will have to recount to me in the afternoon."  
  
It took her a moment to decode his puzzling pattern of speech, but once she understood that he intended for there to be a second meeting before she finished with the repairs, she couldn't help the smile that stole its way across her lip components.  
  
Her servo took hold of his, and he lowered his helm to meet her warm gaze.  
  
"I suppose it is," she grinned. "By the by, I don't suppose I told you my designation just yet?"  
  
"Calibrate."  
  
Her optics blinked in astonishment. "What, but _how_ \- "  
  
"I have a gift." She could have sworn she saw the barest hint of a smile flicker across his face.  
  
"Well, then," she muttered, thoroughly upset by the injustice of it all.  
  
"I am Soundwave."  
  
Her optics glazed over the chipped painting of an old coat of arms, a memory from the past.  
  
One he took notice of her noticing.  
  
Yet, despite his caution, she didn't appear to mind, or even to know what it meant.  
  
"I'm honored to meet you."  
  
Or did she know, after all?  
  
He wasn't picking up any resentment from her train of thought, so he left the mystery at that.  
  
"Likewise." And he almost fooled himself into believing his own words.

* * *

 

An unseen pair of optics watched, carefully, as the lightly-hued psychotherapist made his way back to the office he operated in. His humming, an old Cybertronian song that predated the war, one she had not heard in quite some time, was lifted by the wind and deposited into her audial receptors. She took a whiff, could almost _taste_ his bright spark, thrumming in time with the tune of his song, on her glossa.  
  
And she couldn't help herself: _she laughed_.  
  
It would only be a matter of time before she tracked down her old  _colleagues_.  
  
But until then, she was going to keep playing her game, and boy, did the prize smell _terrific_.  
  
She couldn't wait to sink her dentae into his writhing sparkchamber - but she had to exercise caution. Caution, and _patience_. _An exemplary hunter did not lose composure_ , as an old friend had taught her.  
  
It would not be difficult to get him alone, and once she was finished making a meal for herself out of that beautifully-hued mech, she would access his core of data and know _exactly_ what he knew. And she would find and bring together her old teammates.  
  
Whether they wanted to be returned or not, they had work to do.  
  
(Thus was her Lord's order.)  
  
And boy, did she _live_ to serve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's Soundwave. I may have borrowed his Prime conceptual art. Hope nobody minds.
> 
> (It's just more aesthetically pleasing to me. Plus, it serves that extra purpose of hiding away his face, which I feel is something he would do. However, he seems to have mannerisms from both IDW and Prime. Just go along with it, please. For the sake of humoring me.)
> 
> Besides that, yes, that's Starscream. IDW-verse. And yes, that guy in the last chapter was Megatron. IDW-verse.
> 
> And yes, that was Whirl, and First Aid, and Rung. ^^ I won't point out anyone else, because I'm trying to have you all catch onto it by yourself.
> 
> -nefarious giggle-


	5. 03| Dangers to Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's danger, everywhere, Cali. You just have to start being smart enough to see it."
> 
> Everyone said Road Rage was paranoid, a conspiracy nut -- some people even said he was dangerous.
> 
> Of course, his friends would defend him, because that's what friends do (even when they think you're crazy, too).
> 
> He couldn't understand why this wasn't clear to the people around him. How could they look at anyone they didn't know and see no danger there?
> 
> How could they see red and not fear for their lives? Not see an old badge, an old wreckage, and not worry about what it meant?
> 
> How could people live in Iacon, in Vos, in Tarn and Kaon and Polyhex and Harmonex -- and not see the irony in their names? "New Iacon, New Polyhex, New Kaon"?
> 
> Was he the only one seeing all of this?
> 
> ...
> 
> Road Rage was wrong about a lot of things, yes, but he just knew this wasn't one of those things.
> 
> He only wished everyone else was right, and that he really was just paranoid. That he had no reason to see what he did.
> 
> But it's like someone once told him: "it's not paranoia if they're really out to fool you". Or, something like that.

"Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers,

but to be fearless in facing them."

\- Rabindranath Tagore, _Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore_

"What convinced you to come back?"

The fluorescent lighting brought out the blue in her optics, but still, he could see nothing but his own reflection in her steady, unwavering gaze. There was no fear, nothing that hinted at any threat he might (or might not) have issued when they last met.

It was as if she didn't recall what he had told her. And somehow, thinking that - it _irked_ him.

Was he _nothing_ to her? Was he behaving the child in his decision to speak not a word to her, simply because she had refused to react the way he desired? He wanted to refuse to be that person, to be the one who behaved so predictably, but there weren't many alternative options.

_To play along, or not to?_

He began to wonder if he had ever said a word to her, at all, and if, perhaps, he was mistaking her for someone else. His recollections were scattered, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell apart the distant past and the near one. She _did_ faintly resemble a mech he once knew.

A prisoner at Grindcore, to be more precise. Her faceplates were nearly an identical match, now that he was (mentally) comparing them. But her voice... it was all _wrong_.

 _The prisoner... a traitor... dastardly little thing. Far too weak to survive for much longer than a joor in the smelting pit._ Er, teleport chamber. Yes, it was a teleport chamber. Why did he think it was a smelting pit? Was it...? Was it a smelting pit? Or a teleport chamber?

And why was that prisoner smiling at him? Why wasn't he in his cell?

_Oh... that's right. The generators. They needed to be... repaired..._

Nonetheless, it was not often that a prisoner _smiled_ at him. It was... an unnerving sight.

_"Can I give someone else my place?"_

"Tarn?"

There was a patch of peeling, dried paint in the corner of the room. He could hear their screams, unfortunately. The glass was doing little to drown it out. He tried to hum to himself, but to no avail. One of the other guards was giving him a strange look, asking, _"Commander?"_

He was growling, and demanding that they turn off the music. The screaming had stopped. Were they all dead? _That was rather... quick_. Not a joor. Not a joor had passed.

He could faintly recall someone calling his designation, but he couldn't hear anything else they said to him. The prisoner was staring with wide, wide optics, at the pool of melted armor and open-mouthed screams that pierced the thin walls of the observation deck. He was mouthing something, a prayer (Tarn could faintly read the words _Primus_ and _mercy_ ).

When would the infernal screaming stop?

And just like that, he came to. Abruptly, with no warning, he fell back into the present, with a start, warily noting that there wasn't a single hint of disrepair in this rom. He lowered his helm, a cumbersome movement, for his current state of sudden, unexpected drowsiness.

There was something akin to alarm in her optics, and she was saying something, offering him what appeared to be a full cube of... _something_. His audial receptors stopped ringing, the sound of music lingering, and he realized, then, how parched his throat was.

Was someone humming? He could recognize that refrain, anywhere.

 _Enough of this._ He'd kept his peace long enough.

And if she wanted to talk, then that was _exactly_ what they would do.

(He seriously considered that perhaps she truly knew nothing of his former identity. No one who had ever heard of him would encourage him to speak. Unless there was a death wish involved.)

"I did not."

There was a question burning in those pools, but she never asked. Instead, she placed the cube before him.

"I'm not sure I understand." Was she so quick to forget?

_Where are you, doctor? You may be here in person, but where are you, **really**?_

He shifted. "Why did you meet with me in a different room? Did you think I would not remember, or notice?" He lifted a dark-plated hand, pointing out the barren walls, and ignoring the burning underneath his plating. It was incredible, really, that he was forced to continue reminding himself not to expose his weakness in her presence.

For a moment, she said nothing. He tuned his audial receptors manually, with a flicker of his wrist, the barest brush of a finger. The gentle thrumming of a calm spark soothed him, eased the tension out of his coiled wiring. If he ever got around to putting a stopper in her pulse, he would make certain to enjoy the lullaby of her sparkbeat, beforehand.

(Perhaps he might memorize it. The best music came from the spark, as they said. Of course, they probably did not mean it quite so literally, but he would have to make do with what he had. Or rather, what _she_ had.)

(There was something about it, something that he could set apart from all the others. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something that really left an impression on him. He quite _enjoyed_ listening to it, that and the sound of her breath, even, slow, a hitch here or there.)

( _Are you afraid, doctor_?)

"I was advised that a window might discourage my clients from speaking freely."

He reclined back (away from her), content to drum his fingers against the arm of his new seat, of which he supposed must have replaced the one he broke. The clicking of his fingers matched the rhythm of that of her spark, not that she would know. It was thrilling to believe, however falsely, that she hadn't the faintest idea of the threat posed to her at this very moment in time.

It reminded him of whom held the _real_ power here, and suddenly, everything was okay, again.

He didn't mind that when she looked at him, she did so with pity.

(Though due to the reflectiveness of her optics, he could never be too certain of that.)

"Is that the extent of our relationship?" his voice had dropped to a low rumble, almost a purr. "I am merely your _client_ , doctor? Are we not friends, if I am encouraged to place my faith in you?"

"I hadn't come to the conclusion that you desired any sort of relationship with me."

She blinked, and then, her lip components tugged into a smile, one that beguiled him.

Such a display of good humor was not something he had come to expect from a therapist of her caliber. Mostly due to her (unspoken) alignment with those infuriating Autobots.

"And if I do?" his tone had not changed. Now, he was simply playing a game, entertaining himself. Hoping she would indulge him. Not many could match his games of wit. (Especially since not many could withstand _any_ prolonged period of conversation with the ex-Decepticon.)

"I suppose I should inform you that it would be dubiously inappropriate of me to pursue such an unprofessional relationship with one of my clients," she all but reminded him, something he responded to with the barest hint of a laugh.

"Oh, I'm well aware of that, my good doctor. I meant nothing by it. You are just so very charming that I'm afraid I could not help myself."

There was a twinkle of mirth in her optics, an observation he found endearing.

"Yes, well, as sorry as I am to hear that it was all a well-intentioned joke, I'm afraid that we _do_ have to get to business, now. If I'm ever to be of any help to you, I do have to ask you to _really_ place some of your trust in me." Her optics seemed to lose a bit of that frosty nature he had come to associate with them, and her expression was somber.

He paused. "Trust? You want me to **_trust_** you? Who's to say it won't be a mistake I come to deeply regret?" She reached across the table, pausing momentarily when he stiffened.

When he made no other move to stop her, her fingers found his, enveloping his servo in a gentle squeeze. There was a jolt of warmth that shot up, along his plating, through his wiring, and his _own_ spark did the most curious little jig of befuddlement.

For the first time in a long, long while, since he had observed those life-shattering words of Lord Megatron, he felt nervous. Uncertain. Hesitant.

And he **_despised_** it, **_loathed_** himself for his **_weakness_**.

This program would bring about the end of him.

He was certain of that, now. (And it seemed to be the _only_ thing he knew for certain, as of late.)

But it was not written in stone that he could not bring her crashing down _with_ him.

His optics lowered, and he observed how perfectly her fingers seem to fit around his, how warm her grip felt, how something in his processor whispered to hang on as tightly as he could, while the rest of his mind screamed at him ( _to let go before it was too late_ ).

(When would it be _too late_?)

(It was difficult to tell. Perhaps it already was.)

His spark was silent. He could not hear it, no matter how he strained. This fact terrified him. He tuned out the rest of the world, made certain that his audial receptors caught nothing from around him. And then, as sure as he breathed, he heard it.

The frantic pulsating, the erratic, loud, **_heavy_** drumming, of his spark.

As if it were struggling to go on.

He associated this very same pattern with fear. He had heard it only _twice_ before - once when Nickel had met his optics from outside his fueling capsule, the way her wide optics had made his spark seize, the tears drying on her faceplates that subsequently forced him to realize how big the cause was, how it had managed to extend beyond Lord Megatron and himself and everyone else involved.

How it was more than just any one person, or any single group of people. How it was a dream that must be realized, damning the consequences. He had felt fear, fear that he would not be enough to see it through to the end, and this same fear, it was _back_.

He had always told himself **_never again_** , **_never again_** would he allow himself to feel afraid, or uncertain. But it was as if he had never made any such promise. When he listened to his sparkbeat, when he met those bright blue optics with his own, it was difficult to remember what it felt like to be in control of himself.

Then, he saw it. He hadn't been the only one to feel the... the... _whatever it was_.

(He refused to name it.)

(Or... did he even know what it was, for certain?)

There was the barest twinge of emotion, and suddenly, he wasn't looking at a reflection, anymore. He was seeing a terror he had never known he could cause, there in her optics, but she didn't let go. She was shaking (he could **_feel_** it), and he wondered just how long she intended to keep up the act.

It didn't take much for terror to become desperation. Perhaps just the _slightest_ nudge...

She gave him another squeeze, and then she spoke, voice (surprisingly) even, "I will not let you down, Tarn. That much, I can promise."

(She didn't know why she had felt _compelled_ to say that. It wasn't a promise she could keep.)

"Do not make a promise you cannot keep."

(And he seemed to have caught on, fairly quickly.)

He drew back, and got to his peds, towering over her, looking down into her clear optics.

The reflection was back. Whatever vulnerability had existed, it was gone just as suddenly as it had arrived. For the first time since he had met her, Tarn had a worrying revelation.

This was someone he wasn't certain he could bring to her knees.

Something about her expression angered him, suddenly. The ice swept back into his circuits, though his grip felt empty without her touch. (He dismissed that observation, thinking it would be wise not to consider it for much longer than a klik.) "Your spark is very calm, doctor."

(And it was true. Though he didn't particularly feel the need to explain himself.)

"What?" her voice was a murmur, expression wary.

He realized it then - she really **_didn't_** know who he was.

And a smile graced his lip components.

"I would advise you to keep a close watch on your spark. It is a weak little thing, the spark, and sometimes, it just," he paused, and his gaze swept over her figure, appreciating the visible tremble he caught in her stabilizing servos. " ** _Stops_**."

That being said, he saw his own way out. Leaving behind a very frantic sparkbeat.

Something he found he enjoyed more than its usual lulling rhythm.

And he could almost swear that he heard a hitch in her breath, and then, just as he had predicted, her spark stopped, if only for a moment.

(A grin twisted his expression.)

_What a weak little thing, indeed._

* * *

 

A certain cream-colored therapist was busy working on cataloging all the files from his last session when his colleague walked into the room, a whole cycle after her last client had left.

(Said client had paused to ask him how he was, and to remark on the amazing progress of the reconstruction of Kaon. Then, he had left without so much as a glance back, though Rung could hear the smile in his voice.)

And in came Clandestine, a cycle later. Her expression was careful, controlled, but he could see the lingering caution in her optics. And the fear, the telltale tension, when he spoke up, as though she had been stuck in her own mind, without realizing she wasn't alone.

"How was your second session with him?"

She sighed, and he assumed that must've been the only answer he would get, because then she just made her way to her desk without a single word. He watched her pull the recorder from her bag and place it down beside her data pad, and then she sat, all at once, and placed her helm in her servos. As if nursing a helm-ache.

At last, she spoke. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather, so if you don't mind, I would just rather pretend he doesn't exist. At least, for now. Is that alright with you?"

What could he do but respect her wishes?

* * *

Several cycles passed by, the two of them alternating between sessions to handle their long list of clients, and then, at least for a joor, came a lull period. The last session of the day belonged to Rung, and it would take place three cycles from now.

Then, they could call it a day and close down the wing.

 _Speaking of_... one of the doors to the reception hall opened, and in came an unfamiliar face.

Helm decorated in a similar fashion to those of the mechs who guarded the new Senate of Polyhex, horns curved like those of a ram, and ruby red optics holding the smug light of someone who was cradling a secret.

Her smile was a loaded gun, sly, dangerous.

(Clandestine didn't know it at the time, but she would later come to trust this stranger with her life.) Right now, the psychotherapist only quirked a single optic ridge.

"Good afternoon, doctor," the stranger all but purred. (Neither knew whether she was talking to the mech or the femme.) "I was referred here by my superiors. Seems to me they believe I could do with a session or two of your time."

Rung was the first to act, since Clandestine was still trying to work out who she had been talking to. "For that, we're going to need you to fill out a form. Nothing too personal - just the basics. Contact numbers, address, occupation, designation - and once you hand us your form, we'll pass it through to processing to see whether you truly require the services of the Program."

"If you don't, you'll be referred to another office which accepts clients who don't take part in the Program," Clandestine added, to ensure that there were no misunderstandings or confusions on the stranger's part.

"Just for our personal records, what is your designation?"

A smile curved along her lip components. "Mantadea."

 _Like the organic insect_ , the therapist noted mentally.

Clandestine watched as Rung rummaged through his files, one klik, two... before pulling out the necessary forms, downloading them onto a single data pad, and handing it to the self-professed _Mantadea_. Said femme took it with no small amount of graciousness, and made her way to one of the many empty seats in the lounge, directly before their desks.

The therapist knew the extensive logwork that came with their Program's application process, so she knew that this would take some time. And just like that, in came another stranger. Well, not so much a "stranger" as someone Clandestine hadn't expected to see wandering into _this_ part of the hospital. He worked with Calibrate as an intern - she had spotted the two of them sharing a table numerous times before, during their break hours.

His optics - red as a _particular_ organic species' lifesource (she couldn't remember which one - it had been Road Rage who'd decided to grace her with this pointless _fun fact_ ) - glimmered as he took a few steps forward, in their general direction.

"Are you here to sign an application form for the Program?" she took the liberty of asking, seeing as how Rung hadn't noticed his entrance. He was currently preoccupied with filing a report for his last session.

The red-opticaled mech said something that didn't quite translate into modern Neocybex. She could detect a dash of old Cybertronian (was that... was that the _Primal Vernacular_?), but apart from that bit of obvious trivia, it all sounded like gibberish to _her_. She hated to ask, but -

"Pardon?"

There was an audible sigh, a shifting of weight from one ped to the other, and then, in very strained Neocybex, "Yes. I come to sign form for program. I not here because like it. No choice."

_Translation - he was forced into applying by superiors who don't think he can handle his own. Thus, making **my** duty of care much more difficult, considering he doesn't look to be someone who wishes to cooperate with something he never much wanted, to begin with._

By this point in time, Rung had looked up from his files, thoroughly perplexed. (Or was that concern? Unwilling recognition? She'd need to be _certain_ to be the 'bot to handle this... er... she couldn't quite recall his designation. Had Calibrate introduced him as “Stock”? Was that his name?) _Whatever_ it was that Rung had wanted to say, he didn't get a chance. "In that case, here you go." She handed him a similar data pad to the one Rung had given Mantadea - with exactly the same forms.

The strange mech took the pad and made his way to one of the empty seats, muttering under his breath in that same strange language from before. She shot Rung a look of bemusement, but he didn't bother to enlighten her as to what was going through his processor - faceplates solemn, he simply turned back to his files, without a single word in either direction.

She huffed, but said nothing. Fine - two could play at _that_ game.

* * *

 

Mantadea gave the two therapists a quirk of the lips, something Clandestine took for a smile, and a wave of her thin fingers, which she took as a goodbye. Then, she followed in the footsteps of the mech with a glower for a stare, and left through the very door she had come in.

A few kliks of silence passed, during which Clandestine took the time to wonder if it was indeed possible for the spark to simply stop pulsing (she doubted it - it was highly improbable - there was **_no conceivable way_** in which that was a legitimate event that could take place), and then Rung lifted his helm, optics obscured by those round lenses of his but expression unmistakable.

He appeared to be filled with guilt - which meant he was about to ask her for a favor.

"Clandestine, do you mind -?"

"No, no, of course not." She stood, stretching out her sore circuitry and coiled limbs, before collecting both data pads and making her way towards the door. "While I'm out, I plan to stop by the canteen for a cube. Would you like me to bring you one, as well?"

"Yes, thank you."

* * *

 

The psychotherapist watched his longtime colleague leave the office, and he breathed out in relief. Rodimus had been badgering him lately about updating the Station with the news of who had applied for the Program, but he could hardly check the lists if Clandestine was here.

She had not witnessed the danger that several individuals posed to society - she would not understand why he was breaking protocol without receiving a warrant. And she would _most certainly_ not allow him to carry out his task. She had said it, herself - she would sooner destroy her files than betray the trust of her clients.

He logged into the system's database, making sure to use Clandestine's personal access code to unlock the entirety of her clientele - now all he needed was to download the information, and his part in this _unfortunate_ request would be done. Where was that memory stick?

He had just dropped to his knees to check if he had dropped it (the panic fogging his glasses - there was no telling _when_ Clandestine would return from her short excursion), when he caught sight of an unfamiliar pair of peds through the gap underneath his desk. He muffled a near-silent gasp, and stood up as quickly as possible, uncertain whether he wanted to deal with the shame of allowing a _stranger_ to catch him in the act.

She was a femme, but not the one from before. Not Mantadea (if he was correct?).

"Hello," she spoke, expression strangely complacent. He felt the energon rush to his faceplates, along with that age-old, familiar burn of _shame_ he despised being forced to encounter -- did she know what he was doing, after all? Had he been caught red-handed?

( _No_ \- if he started to allow himself to think like that, he would wind up like Red Alert.)

Her optics were _swimming_ with mirth, he realized, and he shifted his weight from one ped to the other, suddenly beginning to feel self-conscious.

"Hello," he hoped his voice was stronger than he felt. "Do you need an application form -?"

"No," she interjected, tone pleasant.

"Forgive me if I must say so, but this office does not hand out free consultations. You must be registered as a client of the Program to receive a session here."

She stayed silent. The air was growing colder with every second that passed.

(Was there a draft in here...?)

Suddenly, he felt _more_ than just _slightly_ uncomfortable. He felt a thrill of something familiar - something he hadn't felt since (at long last) unboarding the Lost Light - he felt **_fear_**.

"Who are you?"

He forgot to be polite - something about her expression was unnerving enough to will him to forgo his manners. She was watching him with a similar expression to the creature that had aimed to devour him so long ago. Her optics were hungry, her grin unfriendly.

(Near-terrifying.)

"Do you believe in second chances, doctor?"

His mouth was dry - he didn't know what to say. Fortunately (or **_un_** fortunately), she didn't wait for an answer - he suspected she must be goading him. "Can you answer a question for me?"

"Of course -- yes."

Her grin widened, if possible, and she took a step closer. His optics flickered to her clawed servos - she was running one of her impossibly sharp talons along the glass of his desk. There was a horrible _screeeeeeee_ , like the last breath of a scraplet.

He shuddered - and felt the fear tensing along his very spinal cord.

"Whatever happened to the Decepticon Justice Division?"

He swallowed (why did she want to know about them - what connection could she **_possibly_** have to those... those...?), but his expression was firm.

(He hoped.)

"That is, unfortunately, the one question I _cannot_ answer."

(It went against policy - their whereabouts and fates were between them and their therapist. Who was, coincidentally, not himself, but his colleague.)

(The very fact that **_this_** was the stopper to anything he might've said was ironic, to say the least.)

(Their therapist... Or, at least, 2/5ths of them. He hadn't the faintest clue where the other three were - no, _that_ was a lie. Vos had come to their office on that very day - he had been the one speaking in Cybertron's oldest tongue: the _Primal Vernacular_.)

(It was a pity he still had yet to learn sufficient Neocybex.)

(There were _many_ pities, in regards to the quality of his character, and Rung supposed that language use was certainly the **_least_** of them.)

"Mm," she hummed, taking one step, then another, then another, so that she was beginning to circle his desk towards him, optics _never_ leaving his. He could feel his tanks churning - and his energon circuits running cold. (Was it too late to call for help? Would anyone even _hear_ him through that thick glass?) "Tell me, how many were there? 'Bots, I mean. In this..." She paused, perhaps for effect, or, perhaps, searching for the proper words. Her helm tilted, ever-so-slightly, five degrees to the left, ten, twenty... His optics followed the movement. Something inside of his processor, or his spark (somewhere?), was near- _begging_ him to run, but his limbs wouldn't cooperate. It was almost like he... like he **_couldn't_** look away. (But, oh, did he _want_ to.) "... _charming_ little fanclub? I can't quite seem to recall."

"Four?" he guessed, not quite understanding why he'd said it, and then corrected himself, hastily (not quite understanding why he bothered - it wasn't as if she would know -- **_right_**?). "Five."

(Either she was a **_very_** curious newspark, or something was very, **_very_** wrong here.)

She stopped, mere _kliks_ from his face, claws reaching out, digging into the wiring that lined the inner-plating of his arm, **_painful_** , difficult to ignore. " ** _Everyone_** deserves a second chance, Rung." Her voice was soft, tone casual (as if merely pointing out the state of the weather), and then, her grip was gone.

And so was she.

His optics traced the peeling paint she had left behind, along the outer-plating of his wrist, wondering why it hurt less than it should have (wondering if he was going into shock). Fortunately (or _un_ fortunately), he didn't get any more time to himself, to perhaps finish his rather-illegal task, or, at the very least, to go after the strange femme and demand to know who she was. Or how she knew about the Decepticon Justice Division.

(Or how she knew his designation. He couldn't, for the life of him, recall having offered it to her, in the first place. Did she think he would be so distracted by his own fear (paranoia) that he wouldn't notice? (Did she mean to have that effect on him, at all?) _No_... he was beginning to allow himself to think like Red Alert, and nothing good could come of _that_. _What in Primus' name is the **matter** with me, lately?_)

"... been sent. I don't know how long, _exactly_ , the process will take, but we should have the results in, soon enough. Though I _do_ have to wonder, what -- _Rung_? Rung, did something happen? **_Rung_**?"

His train of thought crashed, abruptly, and he forced himself to face his colleague, forced the disconcerting thoughts out of his head, forced himself to _see_ her expression (the picture of concern). Her optics were locked onto the indentations running along the glass surface of his workspace, and then, not too long afterwards, they seemed to catch sight of the similar indentations that nearly disfigured his arm plating.

"I just had the _strangest_ conversation - "

Again, he didn't get enough time to finish that thought.

There was the ( _abrupt_ , _loud_ ) shattering of glass, silence, and then,

" ** _Whirl_**! I've told you a _million_ times, **_use the door_**!"

* * *

 

Not a _single klik_ following Clandestine's departure (being, presumably, on the prowl for a janitor), the mono-opticaled mech turned to Rung and gestured towards his colleague's desk with a click of his (rather large) claws.

"May I?"

"This is a _serious_ task, Whirl. Need I remind you _why_ I asked you to -- "

"Because I wouldn't _bother_ trying to explain myself if I were caught going through confidential files? Because it's _expected_ of me to break the rules? Because you would have a lot of explaining to do if she caught _you_ red-handed?"

Rung's expression didn't change.

"Come on -- _relax_ , eyebrows! This is like pie to me -- or however the saying goes."

"Easy as pie?" inquired the psychotherapist.

"That, that." The ex-Wrecker gave him a dismissive wave of the claw, and circled the femme's workspace, sliding the tip of one of his claws through the narrow opening containing her files and audio logs. There was an audible click, and then he was pulling out the bottom drawer of her desk, and rummaging through her personal collection of datapads.

"Not this, not this, _definitely_ not _that_ \- though I _am_ wondering why she's keeping it here, in her _office_ , of all places," he muttered to himself as he discarded pad after pad. Rung snuck a peak, and the other mech laughed, an unfriendly sound that made him feel ridiculous as soon as he had heard it.

"Made ya look!"

"Just - just try not to take too long. I know _you_ wouldn't feel embarrassed about being caught going                                                                                       through her things, but _I'd_ rather not be forced to explain why I didn't do anything to stop you."

"Whatever happened to _honesty_ , eyebrows?" taunted Whirl in response. "Why don't you just _ask_ her to share? I mean, apparently sharing is _caring_ , nowadays, so -- "

"Because we have a _duty of care_ to our clientele, Whirl -- **_she_** is acting according to Program directives. I, unfortunately, find myself at a moral dilemma -- Ambus has informed me that there are suspicions being aroused concerning potential 'foul play', as he so eloquently put it, amongst the ex-Decepticons. They are concerned about the possibility of potentially dangerous Veterans roaming free among the civilians -- I handed over _my_ list. But she _refused_ to do the same, despite _knowing_ that it's for the safety of the greater good. So, I am taking matters into my own servos."

"By breaching doctor-patient confidentiality?"

Rung chose not to respond, thinking it unwise to play into Whirl's servos (er, _claws_ ).

(Whirl noticed, but, mercifully enough, chose to leave well enough alone.)

(It was bad enough that Rung found himself doing just what he had always fought against.)

(Was it too late to admit that, perhaps, Froid had been right? That he _hadn't_ been ready for the responsibilities and burdens that came with being a therapist? That he might _never_ be ready?)

"Why _me_ , though? Couldn't you do this, yourself?" Whirl directed the conversation elsewhere, making optical-contact with Rung as he began to flip, absently, through the files of a brightly-colored datapad. "I'm sure you know how to handle a _lock_ , Wrung."

"It's Rung," he corrected, automatically, and then, "And I tried. I just - I wasn't _fast_ enough." He was silent for a moment. (Should he, shouldn't he...?) " ** _She_** distracted me."

" _Dezzy_ did? Come on -- she's a babe, I totally agree, but I doubt any one 'bot is smokin' enough to knock _you_ off course." Whirl would have grinned if he could. (But he couldn't. Rung felt a stab of instantaneous guilt as soon as he realized he was _glad_ for it.)

(He couldn't quite understand what was _wrong_ with him, lately. Nothing had ever gotten so underneath his armor as to go about changing parts of his own persona that he hadn't ever realized needed to be repeatedly perpetuated and maintained, in the first place. I.e. his patience and general sense of goodwill and compassion.)

"No, not Dez - _Clandestine_ ," he corrected himself. "A stranger. She came in asking about -- actually, I'm not really certain _what_ it was she wanted."

(No other assessment of the situation could have done it more justice.)

" ** _Whirl_**!"

Both therapist and ex-Wrecker spun.

"What in the _holy light of Primus above_ do you think you're doing? Those are my **_personal_** files -- _classified information_. Do you **_not_** understand the concept of _off-limits_?"

Clandestine was furious -- _that_ much was obvious. Whirl retracted his claws, gave a huff of agitation and/or disappointment (because he'd failed, not because he'd been caught red-handed; er, red- _clawed_ ), and then he left the office, without another word, or nary even a _glance_ at either of them. His blatant lack of concern for infringing on Clandestine's personal business appeared to stupefy her, long enough for the ex-Wrecker to flee before she could come to her senses, and/or give chase.

(Though Rung supposed Whirl would have _delighted_ in a violent confrontation.)

(Of course, the mere fact that she was _surprised_ by Whirl's apathy for committing a crime, and insulting their friendship, tentative as it was, indicated that she, perhaps, did not know Whirl half as well as Rung did.)

And then, she rounded on him.

"Why didn't you _stop_ him? Do you have any idea how _dangerous_ it is to let **_Whirl_** go digging around in my files? The last time he did that, he showed up at one of my client's personal quarters and taunted him about the _Necrobot_. _For kicks_." She was exasperated, and working quickly to restore order to her belongings. He cursed his rotten luck -- failure appeared to be making itself comfortable in Rung's life.

Hopefully, the _third_ time would be the charm.

(Or however that saying went.)

* * *

 

"What'cha got there?"

 _Just on time_.

(This remark was **_not_** , in any way, meant to be mistaken for "sincerity", especially not in regards to... **_him_**.)

"Rodimus." She didn't bother with any of the usual cordialities (like, for example, meeting his optics, or offering any other sign of _genuine interest_ in anything _he_ had to say). "I don't remember inviting you in."

"That's because you didn't -- _Rung_ did. Guess why?" He gave her absolutely no time to attempt to do so (not that she _would_ have, if he had). “’cause I've got a session. **_With Rung_**.”

She peered up at him, now, faceplates betraying her vexation. "I could have _assumed_ as much on my own. **_Without the emphasis_**." She was beginning to think that he might be _lying_ to her. (Which probably wasn't the case. The former Prime had an incorrigible habit of making himself sound and/or look the guilty party when he actually _wasn't_.)

"So, you never answered my question," he reminded her, blue optics presenting to her an unspoken challenge. "What _is_ that? You seem very absorbed in it."

"How perceptive of you," she quipped, mutinously.

"Sarcasm doesn't look half as charming on _you_ as it does on _me_ , doc."

" ** _Amazing_** \-- just the answer to a question I never asked."

His blue optics burned with something like resentment. "It wouldn't kill you to make a little small talk, 'dez." She **_hated_** the way he said her name; like they were just friends playing a harmless game. He didn't have **_any_** right to call her that -- they weren't even on _speaking terms_.

(Or, so, she would have _thought_.)

(He really didn't have any _social finesse_ (or tact), at all, _this_ one.)

"You **_do not_** reserve the right to call me that - and I am in **_no_** mood to make ‘small talk’ with an _insufferable brat_ like yourself." Her optics were narrowed with indignation, now, and he barked out a scathing laugh.

" _Come on_ \-- can we not talk **_once_** without you barking at me," he paused, as if searching for the right words to use, servos planting themselves firmly along the edges of her desk as he leaned in close, expression brazen, smug. " ** _'dez_**?"

" _Oh, No, He Didn’t_."

His expression scrunched up in befuddlement, and she offered him a "smug" look of her own.

"What's wrong? Sparkeater caught your glossa, **_Prime_**?"

"I'm not the **_Prime_** , anymore, and you _know_ it. Real low blow, _doc'_ ," he spoke through gritted dentae, before, abruptly, straightening up and sighing, faceplates cradled in his servo, almost as if to lament their inability to "get along".

She almost felt bad.

"I can't believe you have the nerve to call _me_ immature."

 _Almost_ , being the keyword.

"It's not _my_ fault you haven't got a _functioning processor_ to work with," was her snappy response. If there was anything she hated more than being treated like a **_joke_** by the Veterans, it was being referred to as "immature" by them.

(Especially considering that _most_ of them didn't really have room to talk, what with either being of the same caliber as **_Whirl_** , or **_Rodimus_** \-- or having worked alongside them.)

" _Really? **That's**_ gonna be your response?"

"I answered your question, didn't I?"

That gave him pause (which, consequently, meant that she had _just enough_ time to wonder _how much_ _longer_ it would take before Rung would come along and rescue her from this pointless, **_irritating_** conversation); five kliks passed, _ten_ , before he straightened up, abruptly, without warning.

(Exactly as he did _everything_ in his life.)

"The issue about -?" he was alarmed. _Rightfully so._

"Yes." She offered him a smile, as insincere as ever. "The one about the _Lost Light_ \- "

Quick as a flash, he had _slapped_ the data pad out of her servo, and it _crashed_ into the ceiling, before falling, shards of broken glass following its descent, down to the floor. The floor Clandestine had spent **_two whole cycles_** sweeping **_meticulously_** after the incident with Whirl.

Words could not _describe_ her anger.

But before she could attempt a single syllable, _anyway_ (having jumped up to her feet and placed both servos on her hips), he hastened to explain himself, "I'd rather have you get to know me – the **_real me_** , the me that I am _now_ – than to have you attribute my _past mistakes_ to who I am as a person."

Words escaped her, for the **_first time_** since they’d met.

She could only nod, mutely. He shot her a dazzling grin in response, and spun on the heel of his ped to address Rung, who had just come in from a session with his last patient of the day.

(A very _triumphant_ -looking Whiplash, who had left a bit of color in Rung's faceplates - _Primus_ _only knew_ what the shameless ex-Decepticon had _said_ to the therapist to get such a **_visible_** reaction out of him.)

She couldn't quite come to terms with the fact that Rodimus had wormed his way out of trouble with a few well-placed words after making a _mess_ of her data pad (and of the clinic's floor) - so instead, she chose not to think about it (because considering, _even for a moment_ , that maybe Rodimus _wasn’t_ as “tactless” as she’d originally thought – she could feel another processor-ache coming on). But the therapist _did_ sigh - it was going to take another **_cycle_** to clean up _this_ new mess.

* * *

 

"Is he here?"

The hint of a smile flitted across the older femme's lips.

"Yes."

"The lab, right?"

" _M-hm_."

Calibrate gave her a chipper grin, and crossed the threshold into the cozy little home that Biohazard and Quicksilver had built together ( _not **literally** – hoo-oh-boy, **that** would’ve been a real **undertaking**_ ). It sat across the street from the fountain in the square of **_New Kaon_** \- a _perfect home_ , indeed.

And with the love radiant between the reporter and her _conjunx endura_ , it truly _felt_ like one.

(Calibrate didn’t remember the people who had taken her in from the well - she supposed she should feel _sad_ about this, but she had already replaced those faded faceplates in her processor with the familiar ones of **_Quicksilver_** and **_Biohazard_**. They felt like people she could rely on to **_always_** be there - to always _smile_ and _love_ and remind her that _everything was going to be okay_ when the whole world was falling apart.)

The staircase leading her down into Biohazard's lab was steep, and one or two plates were missing, so she had to be _careful_ , but once she'd stepped through the doorway into the large, cavernous room, she was struck by _awe_.

It was _truly amazing_ how much he could accomplish with such limited supply.

(Of course, most of his projects ended in _failure_ \- either because no one was willing to test them out (so he consequently didn't have any _reliable_ safety measures in place), or because he had grown impatient and rushed the procedures (thereby resulting in significant damage to the foundation of said projects).)

" ** _Bio_**!" she called out, and he turned, protective lenses splayed across his optics as he pressed a single finger down onto a bright blue wire. ( _To hold it in place, no doubt._ )

" ** _Calibrate?_** Did - was that _today_?" he scratched the back of his helm absently – or _tried_ to, had it not been for Quicksilver crossing the room towards him in a flash of golden biolights. She promptly directed his servo _away_ from his head, reminding him _gently_ of the needles he had injected into his fingertips.

("That _surely_ would have been a **_disaster_**.")

" _Oops_ ," he laughed, and then turned to face the youngling. "Was our little meeting _today_ , then, sweetspark?" She nodded her helm, and he sighed, laying the welding torch down with his other hand. (His mate was quick to power it down before it burned a hole right through his workstation.)

"Come. I have something to show you, remember?"

He led her towards the darkened portion of the large room, fussing over a blown transformer.

"Remind me to get a new one, _light of my spark_ ," he noted aloud to his mate, whom grinned in response, affection coating her teasing response.

" _You already have_ , Bio. It's upstairs in the supply closet - should I get it?"

He didn’t get the chance to respond before she was gone, a blaze of gold the only trail she left behind. (Calibrate had always been amazed at the _pure speed_ possessed by the reporter – but then, one didn’t get “the scoop” if one was too slow to reach it before someone else did, as Quicksilver had so _eloquently_ put it.) He offered the younger femme a grin of his own, and gestured towards one of the tables, an odd device capturing her attention almost immediately.

"What's _that_?"

" _That_ , my dear, is what I wanted you to see. This is the _mnemo patch_ ; its given name is far too long for anyone else to bother remembering, I’m afraid." It was a sheepish, near-apologetic observation - which brought to mind _why on Cybertron_ he would name his invention something he _himself_ knew wouldn't be remembered.

(She didn't bother asking - no doubt, it would incite some _overly-complex_ explanation she would grow weary of after the first _five_ _cycles_.)

" ** _Amazing_** \- " she paused, thinking hard. "Actually, what does it _do_?"

"It is similar in function to the _cortical psychic patch_ , a work of genius rendered possible by **_Senator Shockwave_** , himself - _bless his spark_."

"What does it _do_?" she repeated.

He sighed once more, visibly deflating. "It - I borrowed the idea from the human concept of _lobotomy_ , a neurosurgical procedure, or _psychosurgery_ , if you will. In the capable servos of a practicing mnemosurgeon, one can isolate and encrypt certain particles of memory in the memory data core of a CPU processor. Of course, one would have to ensure that the subject is not _conscious_ , or else there would be **_horrific pain_** to pay. Once locked on to the memory particle, a virus is injected that encrypts and locks down the unwanted memory. The procedure could become _lengthy_ , depending on the _quantity_ of memory particles in question."

She blinked. " ** _Right_**. Sorry, I didn't get _any_ of that."

He eyed her closely, faceplates betraying his exasperation. "Basically, it's a device to get rid of _unwanted memories_ , Calibrate. I hope to help _countless_ Veterans adjust to a _very difficult life_ by aiding them in rooting out problematic memories and with just _one_ _source code_ \- wiping clean their slates and starting anew!"

" ** _Amazing_**!" she cheered. "Is it done?"

" _Not quite_!" The mood abruptly died. His expression was serious, now (and Calibrate had to remind herself _not_ _to laugh_ ). "I still need to run a few more tests. Preferably on _non-sentient beings_. However, I _do_ have a favor to ask of you."

He sifted through a pile of data pads, and handed her a few thin sheets. "Flyers. Posters. Soon enough, I _will_ be required to run trials on _totally-sentient_ _beings_. The ideal test subject would be a _volunteer_ \- **_a_** **_Veteran_**. Would it be too much of me to ask you to help me in posting up these announcements? I'm going to be asking for volunteers _soon_ , and I even have a briefing session coming up next week. But for now, this will do." He paused to vent, optics meeting hers, a hopeful blue light that cast darker shadows across the blackened space of the room around them. " _Please_?"

" ** _Of course_**! You don't even have to ask me _twice_!" she chirped, taking hold of the flyers and giving him a merry salute. "Good luck on your work!"

He thanked her graciously, and began to usher her out, unceremoniously. "I wouldn't want that precious little face of yours to wind up _collateral damage_ , now, would I?"

She passed by Quicksilver on her way back up, who was struggling with the transformer.

"Don't mind _me_ ," quipped the other femme, and Calibrate shot her an apologetic look in response.

"See you guys at the **_Alibi_**!"

"Goodbye, for now," responded her dear friend, and she could hear Biohazard echoing something similar from below. Either that, or it could have been, " _Duck for cover - **now**!_ "

(It was probably the latter - there was a deafening explosion that rocked the little home on its hinges. Calibrate was suddenly _glad_ she hadn't accepted their offer to move in.)

* * *

 

She reached the hospital in no time ( _at all_ \- maybe just a cycle; those flyers were heavier than they _looked_!), and then she set to work _right away_ in posting them up on every available flat surface. (Mostly because she had seen numerous Veterans coming in and out of the hospital - if Biohazard was looking for volunteers amongst the Veterans, this was one of the _best places_ to advertise.)

She was posting up a fifth flyer when she was intercepted by her superior, the doctor who was mentoring her group. His cherry red paintjob was hard to miss. " _Calibrate_ , right?"

"Yes, _Doctor Knock Out_." She paused in her task, turning to face him with her usual grin. "Is something wrong?"

He was examining the flyer she had just posted ( _with great difficulty_ ).

"What is _this_?"

" _Oh_ \- a friend of mine, Biohazard, he asked me to post up these flyers for _volunteers_. For his new project," she clarified. He hummed, a note of curiosity.

" _Biohazard_? The very same mech who once razed his own lab to the ground?"

" _Er_ \- no, you must be thinking of a _different_ Biohazard."

She laughed. He _didn't_. She coughed.

" _Um_ , am I in trouble? Am I _not allowed_ to post these up?"

"What is this project's _goal_ , exactly?"

" _Oh_!" she brightened up. "It's going to help get rid of _unwanted memories_ so that the Veterans can **_really_** have a _clean slate_."

"Is that so?" he tilted his helm in question, red optics boring into hers.

He appeared vaguely _disapproving_. She didn't understand why. What Biohazard was doing - it was a _service_! To everyone who had **_ever_** wanted to escape the _screams_ in their helms and the _nightmares_ in their recharge cycles.

(That's what he had _meant_ , she assumed.)

"Yes."

"Tell me, have you heard of **_shadowplay_**?"

" _Shadowplay_? Yes. It was an old procedure, right? Back before the war?" her optical ridges were furrowed. What did _Shadowplay_ have to do with -

_Oh. **Oooooh**. Oh, no, **dear Primus** , he can’t think -?_

" ** _It's not Shadowplay_**!" she blurted. He quirked a single optical ridge.

"Isn't it?"

"No, it _isn't_!" Her expression was _defiant_ , downright _mutinous_. How could he even _assume_ -? Biohazard wasn't _capable_ of such **_cruelty_**! He was a **_good_** mech, really! That time he went to the Station had been a _mistake_...!

"It's meant to _help_ people, not _control_ them; not erase who they are! It's to give them a _second chance_ to be the person they _want_ to be, and that they _could_ be, if their nightmares weren't clouding their way! Biohazard _isn't_ a **_monster_** \- he would **_never_** want to _destroy_ anyone like that."

He appeared unconvinced, but he didn't press the issue.

"No one is being _forced_ to do it," she said, voice small.

He turned on his ped, peering down at the data pad in his servo.

" _Yet_."

* * *

 

The lights of the _Alibi_ were dim when Calibrate ordered her third round of Engex.

She ignored the pointedly concerned looks from Tailgate in his booth with Cyclonus.

She didn't want to talk - not after the _unspoken accusation_ she had witnessed throughout the rest of the day on numerous people's faces. All she had to do was hold up a flyer and they were _all_ thinking it. They didn't say it, but she could _see_ it in their faceplates, in the _doubt_ and _suspicion_ in their optics. The _distrust_ in their frowns. The distance in their smiles.

**_Shadowplay._ **

They all thought **_Biohazard_** was capable of **_Shadowplay_**.

If only they _knew_ him - they would **_never_** dare think such _horrible things_ if they knew him.

"Calibrate," came a murmur from her left. She jumped, maybe a _foot_ in the air, startled, and turned her helm. Steady red optics caught her wide blue ones.

" _Road Rage_ -?"

"I can't stick around long," he interjected, wordlessly dismissing Blackjack, who was holding up a cube of Engex in question, "so I'm only going to say this **_once_**. I need you to meet me outside the pub tomorrow morning. **_Early_** \- _as early as possible_. Let's say, _five_ , right when the sun is beginning to rise over Kaon."

"What - _why_?" she sputtered, confusion evident in her intoxicated state.

He leaned in closer, optics narrowed, and took a single whiff of her shaky exvents. " _Slag it_ , Cali, I need you to be _coherent_ for this - " he broke off, agitated, and whipped out a data pad. He made some quick notes, and then pulled open one of her subspaces (without explicit consent – she would have had the good sense to feel violated if she still _had_ any ( _good sense_ , that was)). He dropped it in, and closed it, with a single pat.

(A gesture she usually found _condescending_.)

" _I have something to show you_ ," he whispered, ensuring that no one (especially not a curious Blackjack) would overhear. "So, try not to drink too much. I need you up _bright and early_. Remember - **_this is important_** , you idiot."

That being said, he gave Roulette, at the other end of the bar, a decisive nod, and ducked out of the pub.

A few moments passed, and Calibrate pushed away her cube, suddenly feeling ill.

Maybe he was right - maybe she _should_ just call it a day.

She had tried her best today, and that was all _anyone_ could do.

_Tomorrow is going to be a long, **long** day._

She chanced a look back at Tailgate, and tried to smile, to reassure him. The tension didn’t fade from his limbs (because he didn’t buy it), but his visor brightened, _anyway_ , and he offered her a wave of his servo.

(Cyclonus barely seemed to _notice_ the odd exchange - _as expected_.)

Calibrate bid her last goodbyes to Blackjack and Roulette, paid her tab, and left the pub with a single word in mind. A single, _burning_ accusation.

**_Shadowplay._ **

**_Shadowplay._ **

**_Shadowplay._ **

Suddenly, the world didn't feel so _safe and cozy_ , anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason I use those summaries, people. It's to make you think. lolol
> 
> This chapter served a certain purpose, too. To make you question what you're seeing, question what you're reading, question everything you learn.
> 
> Sometimes, a curtain is just blue because that's the color the owner likes. And sometimes, there really is a deeper meaning behind it.
> 
> Thing is, it's not always gonna be my job to tell you what to see. Sometimes, you gotta look for it, yourself.
> 
> That being out of the way, lolol (my poetic rambling of the day), I hope you guys enjoyed this marathon of chapters I've been releasing for this story. I had all this up for editing and posting, so, there ya go. ^^;; I still have more chapters to edit and post here, but don't worry -- I'll get it done pretty punctually, since I seem to have gone back to this story after months of not writing for it.
> 
> (For those of you who don't know that this is my pattern -- hi, I'm Chatterboxomie. Welcome to Hell™.)
> 
> (But don't worry, guys. It's the good kind of Hell™. Here, I don't post as regularly as I probably should (which I am trying hard to change), but when I do, it's a goldmine.)
> 
> (Or, at least, that's what I like to tell myself at night to sleep better.)
> 
> Anyways, things are getting weird. Just roll with it. I promise, things will get better. (lies through her teeth)
> 
> Okay, well, things will get interesting. That's about the only promise I can make, at this point.
> 
> Ramble over. Thanks for dropping by! 
> 
> (P.S. I see you, TomorrowsHero, already bookmarking this piece when it just came out today. You the real MVP. lmao)


End file.
